Westward  the  Course  of  Empire — 


EX  LIBRIS  CALIFORNICIS 
CARL  I.  WHEAT 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 

MEMORIAL  FUND 


Westward  the  Course  of  Empire — 

«»,  .»  •  ». 

EX  LIBRIS  CALIFORNICIS 
CARL  I.  WHEAT 


University  of  California  •  Berkeley 

THE  PETER  AND  ROSELL  HARVEY 

MEMORIAL  FUND 


IN    THE 

VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH 


BY 

FREDERICK  THICKSTUN  CLARK 

Author  of 4  ''A  Mexican  Girl,"  etc. 


Strife  is  the  father  of  all  things.— HEBACLITUS. 


NEW  YOHK : 
FRANK  F.  LOVELL  &  COMPANY 

142-144  WORTH  STREET, 


COPYRIGHT, 
FREDERICK  THICKSTUN  CLARK. 

1890. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THIS  is  the  land  of  Havilah,  compassed  by  the  river 
Pison,  "  where  there  is  gold." 

Havilah  is  a  name  of  so  broad  an  application  as  to  em 
brace  a  superficies  of  several  of  California's  largest  counties 
— so  broad,  indeed,  as  to  render  boundary  lines  vague 
even  in  the  minds  of  those  who  know  that  country  best 
and  have  travelled  from  one  end  of  it  to  the  other.  The 
Havilah  of  the  local  maps  is  a  small  black  dot,  indicating 
a  post-office,  but  men  in  other  parts  of  the  state  who  have 
mining  stocks  to  sell  never  mention  the  black  dot  in  con 
nection  with  the  interests  and  advantages  of  the  region, 
except  incidentally,  as  the  point  from  which  certain  of  the 
miners  obtain  supplies.  The  real  Havilah  is  anywhere 
in  the  hills  where  gold  is  found,  and  a  man  may  live  in 
Havilah,  yet  be  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  or  more  from 
the  shabby  little  mining  camp  which  bears  that  name. 
Havilah  is  generic  and  embraces  a  region,  mountainous, 
campestrian,  and  fluvial,  large  enough  and  rich  enough 
to  have  supported  a  powerful  state  in  ancient  times;  the 
Camp  of  Havilah  is  specific,  and  refers  directly  to  the 
tumble-down  mining  village  where  the  post-master  and 
the  saloon-keeper  ply  their  respective  callings  in  the  midst 
of  an  unliterary  and  thirsty  population.  To  the  inquirer 


4  Iff  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

at  a  distance  who  professes  to  wish  to  visit  the  place,  the 
locality  is  lumped  indefinitely  as  the  "  Havilah  District" 
or  the  "Havilah  Country",  and  from  the  descriptions  of 
men  who  have  been  there  the  stranger,  if  he  has  an  im 
agination,  furnishes  his  mind  with  a  cosmorama  of  land 
scapes  of  truly  Western  amplitude,  opening  up  infinitely 
varied  vistas  of  broad  plains  and  lofty  mountains,  of 
sunny  slopes  and  gloomy  canons,  of  rushing  rivers  and 
mighty  forests  which  shajce  the  air  with  low-toned  melody; 
a  shifting  picture  which,  though  made  up  largely  of  a 
kaleidoscopic  interchange  of  color,  is  unlike  other  pictures 
in  that  it  makes  itself  audible — almost  sentient — in  its 
moaning  pines  and  sobbing  waters.  If  our  stranger  is  new 
to  California  and  the  paradoxes  of  the  mountains,  he  will 
fill  out  his  picture  with  details,  calling  them  the  fabri 
cations  of  ingenious  minds,  with  which  the  season  of 
the  year  apparently  has  nothing  to  do,  and  conjure 
up  an  antipodal  state  of  things  in  which  roses  bloom 
in  snow-drifts  and  wild  strawberries  are  gathered  the 
year  round  ;  and  into  these  mixed  conditions  of  tropical 
luxuriance  and  polar  frost  he  will  fuse  a  sense  of 
sublime  desolation,  of  the  withdrawal  of  the  world  into 
a  gray  silence  through  whose  inert  soul  inarticulate  songs 
are  striving  for  speech  and  utterance.  It  is  all  im 
possible,  contradictory.  Now  our  stranger  will  see  in 
his  mind's  eye  a  landscape  basking  in  the  broad  glare 
of  noon-day,  now  shut  in  by  the  dusky  luminousness  of 
nights  when  stars  throb  big  and  warm  in  the  near  sky  ; 
now  presenting  a  bustling  young  camp  of  a  few  days' 
growth,  now  a  "  petered  out"  town  as  desolate  as  the 
ruins  of  Babylon  where  the  kings  of  Persia  hunted  wild 
beasts  ;  now  a  stretch  of  adobe  desert ;  now  a  blossom 
ing  tapestry  of  meadow-land  undulating  broadly  down  to 
a  river  ;  now  showing  surges  of  daisies  and  iris  blossoms, 
through  which  cattle  wade  flank-deep  ;  now  gray  as  a 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  5 

dead  face  in  the  desolation  of  winter  ;  and  darkened  fit 
fully  in  spring  by  processional  clouds  which  trail  their 
fringed  robes  along  the  mountain-tops  and  make  earth 
and  sky  vibrate  with  the  elemental  music  of  thunder. 

If  the  stranger  becomes  curious  and  visits  the  place, 
he  finds  his  picture  by  no  means  an  exaggeration 
of  the  truth.  One  must  see  that  land  to  know  how 
wonderful,  how  beautiful,  it  is.  In  the  presence  of  reality, 
description  becomes  mere  poetic  nonsense,  words  degen 
erate  into  syntactical  incoherencies.  The  dweller  in  the 
land  of  Havilah  lives  with  a  growing  sense  of  his  own 
littleness  in  this  realm  of  epic  possibilities,  feeling  that  it 
should  be  peopled  by  genii  and  dragons  ;  he  goes  away 
enlarged  by  the  consciousness  that  he  has  been  the 
witness  of  unheard-of  changes,  the  companion  and  inti 
mate  of  stupendous  physical  forces,  the  friend  of  Nature's 
secret,  introspective  moments. 

We  are  parts  of  the  Infinite  whole,  pieces  chipped  off 
from  the  Infinite  mind.  Why  should  it  be  accounted  a 
difficult  thing  to  feel  our  relations  to  the  Primal  Love  as 
near  and  pleasant,  even  though  the  need  of  human  fel 
lowship  binds  a  share  of  our  affections  to  the  earth? 
Here  in  the  mountains  there  need  be  no  doubt  of  at  least 
the  broadest  meanings  of  nature  and  the  soul  above 
nature.  The  great  harp  of  creation  is  strung  with  chords 
of  continually  increasing  fineness,  from  the  rocks  and  trees 
up  to  men  and  the  angels.  Woods,  winds,  and  waters, 
in  all  their  varied  forms  of  beauty,  are  God's  concrete 
thoughts ;  man's  spiritual  excellences  are  His  abstract 
thoughts.  To  understand  nature  is  to  draw  near  to  the 
Great  White  Throne  and  worship  in  humble  adoration  ; 
but  to  understand  the  human  soul  is  to  take  part  in  the 
workings  of  the  Divine  Intellect ;  and  feel  the  solemnity 
of  its  mightiest  aspirations. 

Whoever  has  watched  the  rushing  storms  rise  on  these 


6  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

mountains  and  drive  the  sunshine  before  them  like  an 
affrighted  thing  ;  or  has  lain  in  summer  under  the  cot 
ton-woods  and  listened  to  such  sounds  as  the  poet  hears, 
stretched  at  ease  under  slow-swaying  branches  ;  or  has 
seen  the  great  valley  arched  by  a  rainbow  like  the  en 
trance  into  heaven  ;  or  has  heard  the  distant  song  of  the 
mocking-bird,  whose  unknown  words  may  mean  any 
thing  that  is  good  and  joyful  ;  or  has  imagined  himself 
into  the  low  music  of  the  river  till  he  sobs  and  trembles 
with  the  exquisite  sympathy  of  rhythm — surely  such  a  one 
cannot  doubt  that  he  has  added  greatly  to  his  soul's  wealth. 
And  I  wonder  if  the  mortal  is  living  who  could  stand  at 
night  under  the  wide  sky  of  Havilah  and  not  feel  strength 
ened  and  pacified  by  the  visible  peace  of  God's  firma- 
mental  dwelling — not  know  that,  somewhere  beyond  these 
glimpses  and  vague  dreams,  there  is  an  existence  eternal, 
tranquil,  satisfying,  of  whose  perpetuity  our  impatience 
of  all  littleness,  of  all  inefficiency,  is  a  sure  sign  and 
token.  It  was  good  of  God  to  place  us  within  sight  of 
His  peace,  even  if  we  can  not  at  once  attain  to  it ;  it  was 
good  of  Him  to  give  us  hopes  of  such  attainment,  even 
when  our  soul's  tumult  fiercely  interposes.  Surely,  the 
mere  sight  of  good  things  has  power  to  make  us  better. 

The  valley  in  which  the  camp  of  Havilah  is  situated  is 
broad  enough  for  the  passage  of  a  dozen  such  rivers  as 
the  one  that  flows  through  it — so  broad  that  at  the  farther 
side,  even  in  clear  weather,  the  mountains  loom  dimly 
through  pale  haze  and  melt  imperceptibly  into  the  wide 
sky  ;  but  the  river,  as  if  resenting  a  course  equidistant 
from  heights  it  is  forbidden  to  touch,  makes  a  sudden 
angry  dash  against  the  foothills,  and  then  all  at  once 
calms  its  rebellious  waves  and  flows  on  quietly  under  the 
beetling  cliffs,  pacified  by  its  one  wrathful  paroxysm. 

The  steep  gulches  of  these  foothills  are  always  in  shadow  : 
from  the  river's  bank  the  blackness  in  them  looks  like 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  7 

cataracts  of  ink.  In  summer  when  the  sunshine  is  yel 
lowest  and  the  shadows  are  blackest,  the  traveller  glances 
up  with  scared,  distrustful  eyes,  half-believing  that  such 
opaqueness  is  more  than  shadow — that  it  is  something 
substantial  whose  weight  may  dislodge  it  from  the  air- 
hung  ledges  where  it  clings,  and  plunge  it  down  into  the 
valley  like  a  landslide. 

The  valley  is  not  only  broad  but  long  ;  and  in  winter 
it  is  very  desolate.  Winter  in  Havilah  means  the  rainy 
season  of  December  and  January.  The  long  heats  of 
summer  have  dried  up  everything  before  the  rain  comes, 
and  the  valley  looks  like  a  bare,  boundless  plain  with  the 
mountains  for  white-edged  clouds  on  the  horizon.  The 
rainy  season  makes  it  doubly  desolate ;  then  there  is 
only  the  gray  valley  narrowed  by  the  mists,  a  gray  river  in 
the  midst  of  it,  and,  on  clearer  days,  gray  mountains  on  all 
sides,  like  a  deeper,  blurred  shading  of  the  sky.  Out 
side  of  the  camp  there  is  no  sign  of  effort  anywhere — the 
road  is  not  an  effort  but  an  accident ;  and  there  is  no 
sound  but  the  roar  of  the  river,  the  throbbing  of  the  winds 
in  the  pines,  or  the  occasional  howling  of  a  coyote  from 
the  hill.  On  rare  days  the  storm  ceases  for  a  little  and 
the  gray  sky  thins  to  a  vacant  dimness,  almost  as  if  the 
sun  were  about  to  shine  through  ;  but  in  reality  that  pale 
gray  is  heavy  with  rain.  Even  while  you  look  the  clouds 
fall  from  heaven  with  a  plummet-like  rush  and  the  air 
heaves  with  the  liquid  melody  of  the  storm.  Gazing  out 
through  the  blue-green  air  is  like  standing  at  the  bottom 
of  the  sea  and  trying  to  look  away  through  the  endless 
waters.  During  the  rainy  season  there  is  rain  always  in 
sight.  Even  when  by  chance  the  zenith  is  clear  and 
blue,  the  scolloped  rim  of  the  horizon  is  dim  with  clouds 
that  rise  with  compact  edges  which  are  soon  torn  into 
strips  and  shreds  by  sudden  winds.  Yet  with  all  this 
moisture  nothing  grows  ;  nothing  suggests  the  approach  of 


8  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  II A  VI L AH. 

spring;  and  when  settled  weather  comes  at  last,  the  desola 
tion  is  so  complete  as  to  remind  one  of  the  earth  before  any 
rain  fell  and  before  there  was  a  man  to  till  the  ground. 

That  is  Havilah  at  its  worst,  in  the  brief  winter.  When 
the  storms  are  over,  the  world  rests  in  a  stupor  like  the 
languor  of  convalescence,  and  Nature  seems  holding  her 
breath  in  awe  of  the  miracle  of  returning  life  within  her. 
But,  in  spite  of  the  grayness  of  the  valley  and  the  foothills, 
one  feels  the  sweet,  secret  growths  of  spring  going  on  in 
hint  and  suggestion  ;  in  the  rich  quiet  of  things  there  are 
prophetic  subtleties  of  song  as  unmistakable  as  in  the  si 
lence  of  a  young  bird  that  has  not  yet  uttered  a  note.  Then 
the  spring  comes  on  with  a  rush.  It  is  easy  to  imagine 
that  you  hear  the  grass  grow,  that  you  feel  the  tingling 
ecstasy  of  buds  stretching  up  from  beneath  the  moist 
ground.  Almost  in  a  day  the  valley  is  green  with  grass 
and  bright  with  flowers ;  the  iris  stands  adrip  with  sun 
shine,  the  sweetbriar  breaks  into  red  stars,  the  wind  shakes 
out  honey  from  the  clover  blossoms.  In  everything  there 
is  an  ecstasy  of  satisfaction  with  the  "little  span  of  life  " 
even  the  glooms  under  the  cottonwoods  by  the  river, 
persistent  as  they  are  all  day,  are  content  to  last  only 
as  long  as  the  sun  shines  and  then  sink  away  into  the 
shapeless  void  of  night.  Ah!  the  beautiful  world !  There 
can  be  no  question  of  betterment  anywhere  :  leaf-hid  flower 
and  thorn  alike  are  perfect  ;  day  and  night  alike  are  good. 
The  souls  of  men  become  optimistic,  religious  ;  people 
are  willing  to  substitute  the  doctrine  of  transubstantiatioi 
for  more  practical,  rational  beliefs  ;  they  say,  let  the  far- 
off  world  wag  as  it  will,  our  pleasure  is  here,  where  God  is 
so  near  and  friendly. 

The  country  was  named  after  that  Havilah  of  Scripture 
which  was  rich  in  gold,  bdellium  and  onyx-stone  ;  and 
there  was  a  time,  not  long  ago,  even  as  men  remember, 
when  people  flocked  hither  from  the  uttermost  parts  of 


Itf  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  9 

the  earth  in  search  of  the  hidden  treasures  of  the  rocks. 
An  occasional  fortune  is  made  by  the  solitary  miner  even 
now,  but  that  is  rare.  Havilah  has  gone  down— ' l  petered- 
out,"  the  Californians  say  of  it.  If  the  prospector  is  able 
to  supply  himself  with  coffee,  beans,  and  whiskey,  he  con 
siders  that  he  is  doing  very  well  in  these  days. 

But  the  "  boom  "  of  Havilah's  prosperous  years  left  its 
mark  on  the  region.  Traces  of  the  extinct  population  are 
common— ^not  such  traces  as  are  found  among  the  ruins 
of  Oriental  cities,  no  vases,  no  statuary,  no  temples. 
Nothing  artistic  :  shreds  of  pottery,  indeed,  but  of  the  vul 
gar-useful  sort  which  excludes  the  possibility  of  a  Greek 
influence  ;tumble-dowrn  cabins,  charred  sticks,  the  remains 
of  solitary  camp-fires  in  rocky  recesses. 

Sometimes  these  archaic  fragments  are  more  than  sug 
gestive,  they  are  ghastly.  It  is  likely  that  even  the  unscien 
tific  foot-passenger  among  the  mountains  will  one  day  find 
out — and  he  will  prefer  to  forget  the  discovery — that  there 
are  zoological  resemblances  between  the  jaw-bones  of  men 
and  mules.  The  gulches  are  full  of  dead  people — people 
who  were  once  buried  but  have  come  to  the  surface  again, 
and  recommenced  their  restless  journey  ings  to  and  fro  on 
the  face  of  the  earth.  The  wolves  and  the  storms  have 
attended  to  it.  They  are  famous  democrats. 

We  know  little  or  nothing  of  these  dead  men  individ 
ually — the  names  of  such  exiles  are  as  useless  to  modern 
civilization  as  would  be  a  list  of  all  the  children  of  Israel 
in  Egypt — but  we  may  infer  that  collectively  they  were 
devoutly  religious,  according  to  their  light  ;  else  why 
came  they  so  far  to  offer  up  their  lives  here  in  the  service  of 
their  god  ?  With  them  there  was  no  hesitation,  no  choice. 
The  range  of  their  ideas  included  riches  and  death, 
no  more.  Failing  to  get  wealth,  they  died  for  it  as  for 
a  great  cause.  We  who  use  up  our  lives  in  pleasure 
as  we  do  a  cigar,  hesitating  even  at  the  last  to  throw 


10  IN  THE  VALLEY 

away  the  useless  stub  lest  there  be  a  whiff  or  two  left  in  it 
that  we  may  enjoy,  have  no  conception  of  their  irrespon 
sibility  in  the  matter  of  life  and  death.  It  was  sublime  to 
see  how  they  took  possession  of  themselves,  leaped  mo 
mentarily  into  a  conflagration  of  self-assertion,  then  passed, 
a  red  flame  vanishing-  in  smoke.  Sublime,  but  terrible — a 
moral  scourge  whose  effect  still  lingers.  They  knew  no 
future,  no  past.  They  had  the  present,  and  filled  that  with 
the  terror  of  their  wills.  The  idea  of  immortality  eluded 
them  ;  they  said,.  We  are  not  a  set  of  tops  that  go  on  spin 
ning  forever.  What  they  were,  they  knew  not,  cared  not. 
It  was  enough  to  feel  themselves  masters  of  the  hour,  to 
ride  dizzily  on  the  highest  crest  of  the  wave.  It  was  not 
a  code  of  life — it  was  a  philosophy  of  defeat.  And  there 
are  men  who  have  completed  their  threescore  and  ten, 
with  a  reputation  for  wisdom,  who  are  forced  to  be  con 
tent  with  neither  more  nor  less. 

Fools  they  were,  traitors  to  the  high  ideals  of  their  race. 
They  gained  nothing  by  their  fanatic  devotion  to  their 
god,  reached  no  ultimate  conclusions,  had  no  reconciling 
assurance  of  better  things,  discovered  no  rule  by  which  it 
seemed  good  to  live  and  die.  Their  ferocious  enjoyment 
of  the  present  was  a  troublous  experience  at  best — the 
uncertain  poise  of  a  desperate  gamester  for  a  moment  on 
the  summit  of  circumstance.  They  discovered  nothing, 
1  fancy,  that  could  help  you  or  me  through  the  world. 
They  thought  little  of  principles  ;  they  were  busy  with 
actions.  Such  knowledge  of  life  as  they  gained  must 
have  been  of  the  negative  sort  which  impotent  survivors 
substitute  reluctantly  for  action,  when  action  is  no  longer 
effective.  Some  of  them  perished  like  cattle,  falling  from 
stupidity  to  insensibility,  without  knowing  or  caring  what 
the  transition  meant ;  others  cursed  God  and  died,  carry 
ing  the  defiance  of  their  lives  into  their  deaths.  Some 
stood  erect  for  years  against  winds  which  would  wreck 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  I 

a  ship  in  an  hour ;  the  few  whose  prayers  were  granted 
learned  perhaps  that  it  is  better  to  sigh  for  an  ideal  than 
sorrow  over  a  reality  (an  ex  post  facto  verity  of  little  com 
fort),  and  discovered  the  grim  truth  that  adopting  con 
ventional  opinions  of  wealth  and  happiness  is  like  adopt 
ing  other  people's  children,  entailing  consequences  of 
care  with  only  doubtful  intervals  of  satisfaction.  No  mat 
ter  ;  whatever  they  learned,  they  are  wise  in  their  silence, 
giving  us  \to  learn  the  lesson  for  ourselves  in  our  own 
good  time  and  way  ;  and  if  the  knowledge  we  are  ca 
pable  of  is  after  all  only  vanity,  we  may  be  glad  at  least 
that  the  acquirement  of  it  breaks  the  monotony  of  our 
days  with  variety  and  purpose  that  even  a  consecration 
of  mind  and  heart  to  false  gods  is  nobler  than  brute  slug 
gishness  and  indifference.  And  when  at  last  we  too  shall 
pass  silently  into  silence,  we  may  be  sure  that  our  wisdom 
will  be  no  less  than  the  wisdom  of  all  who  have  gone  before 
us  if  we  can  trust  that  we  go  to  the  fulfilment  of  all  that 
we  left  incomplete,  to  an  infinite  knowledge  unshadowed 
by  doubt,  an  eternal  good  unconditioned  by  evil ! '  What 
is  there  to  fear  in  death,  believing  it  to  be  the  awakening 
where  dreams  of  God  come  true  ? 

But  we  are  not  concerned  with  these  dead  men  of  Hav- 
ilah.  The  dead  are  always  an  incident,  a  digression  ; 
our  chief  interest  is  still  with  the  living.  Havilah  has  its 
gold-seekers  to-day,  scattered  indeed  and  degenerate, — if 
we  may  put  confidence  in  the  heroes  of  local  tradition, — 
but  still  moved  by  the  devout  spirit  of  their  predecessors 
and  willing  to  die  in  the  service  of  the  old  god.  They 
are  not  nice  people,  these  modern  provincial  worshippers 
of  Mammon.  A  brief  sojourn  among  them  tempts  one 
to  think  them  bad  altogether.  But  one  has  need  to  take 
care  of  his  conclusions.  Practical  sociology  is  an  exper 
imental  science,  and  an  experiment  on  such  material  may 
be  easily  misinterpreted.  Certainly,  they  are  not  nice 


1 2  /^V  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH, 

people ;  among  them  are  gamblers,  wife-beaters  —  hus 
band-beaters,  too — adulterers,  murderers,  outlaws  of  e^ 
degree  of  turpitude — men  and  women  with  wrinkles  in 
their  tires  whose  smoothing  out  must  be  the  work  of  di 
vine  hands  ;  but  then,  too,  there  is  much  generous  friend 
ship  of  a  boisterous,  roaring  kind,  an  unselfishness  in 
material  affairs  which  would  be  beautiful  in  finer  na 
tures,  and  a  sense  of  justice  amounting  to  a  pas 
sion.  That  is  not  saying  much  for  them  ;  to  recon 
struct  a  man  from  such  data  seems  as  hopeless  as  to 
rebuild  a  temple  from  shattered  plinth,  and  crumbling 
cornice,  but  the  result  of  such  reconstruction  is  not  alto 
gether  without  its  charm.  Regarded  philosophically  as 
a  legitimate  object  of  human  inquiry,  these  people  are  not 
un worthy  of  a  place  in  the  history  of  primitive  nu 
considered  socially,  they  point  a  moral  to  civilized  man, 
indicating  as  they  do  his  infinite  capacity  for  development 
and  retrogression.  We  can  not  help  judgii:  :on- 

demning,  but  it  would  be  well  to  stop  and  th:  :her 

we  are  not  judging  and  condemning  ourselves  under  their 
hard  conditions.     Are  we  so  certain  of  our  c  ous 

footing  that  we  can  without  danger  poise  ourselves  on 
our  little  ledge  and  push  off  those  who  are  on  the  ledge 
below  us  ?     Xay  ;  to  whatever  summit  of  personal  per 
fection  we  may  climb,  the  abyss  of  self  is  always  yawr 
at  our  feet,  ready  to  engulf  us  if  we  stumble  and  fall 
Character  is  the   aggregate  of  life's  accepted  good  and 
evil,  and  only  at  the  last  moment  ot  earthly  consciousn ; 
I  think,  can  we  compare  our  acts  with  our  intents,  and 
know  how  strong  we  are, 

This  book  is  a  history  of  several  of  Havilah's  latter-day 
adventures. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  13 


CHAPTER  II. 

THOSE  who  understand  the  signs  say  that  the  rainy  sea 
son  is  over.  By  that  they  mean  that  the  weather  is  in  a 
transitional  state  ;  for  at  times  the  sun  is  still  banked 
vvith  clouds,  his  rays  are  faint  in  shaded  gray  circles,  he 
'  like  a  thought  fading  out  in  a  word.  Often  even  when 
zenith  is  cloudless  the  rain  still  hangs  on  the  high 

>rizon  in  long,  slender,  isolated  showers,  like  swaying 

mis  of  frayed  gray  silk,  while  mountains  beyond  moun- 
s,  each  with  a  grayer  vail  of  rain,  bend  forward  through 

i-  mist     And  people  may  look  up  thither  from  the  val- 

v  and  call  to  mind  how  God  once  gathered  the  waters 
ogether  in  one  place. 

But  to-day  the  clouds  are  wiped  from  the  sky  like  breath 
from  a  glass.  The  sunshine  falls  freely,  refreshed  by 
recent  wind  and  storm.  The  mountains  seem  to  draw 
their  ice-crowned  heads  farther  away  from  each  other, 
and  the  snow  on  them  kindles  into  a  blaze  that  "freezes 
and  burns.  Here  and  there  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
foothills  the  grass  shows  itself  faintly.  To-day  the  val 
ley  is  a  flat,  desolate  expanse  of  adobe  ;  to-morrow  it  will 
be  a  sea  of  grass,  broken  by  billows  of  flowers.  That  is 
the  way  spring  comes  in  California.  It  is  as  if  you  were 
to  fall  asleep  with  the  November  rain  surging  and  sob 
bing  around  the  corners,  and  awaken  in  the  morning  to  see 
full-blown  roses  nodding  at  you  outside  the  window. 

To  Mr.  Ephraim  Pugsley,  who  was  in  a  mood  to  dwell 
on  disagreeable  details,  it  appeared  that  the  spring  had 
never  before  manifested  itself  in  a  series  of  such  peculiar 
annoyances.  He  had  never  before  at  this  season  of  the 
year  seen  the  sky  when  it  looked  so  dry,  or  the  earth  when 


14  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

it  looked  so  ineffectually  damp  ;  the  river  struck  him  as 
insufferably  familiar  in  its  garrulous  monotone ;  and  he 
had  never  known  the  mountains  to  insist  themselves  so 
offensively  on  his  attention — like  blundering  strangers 
who  persist  in  being  friendly.  For  Mr.  Pugsley  was  not 
without  a  sensibility  to  uncongenial  surroundings  when 
he  lacked  the  material  means  by  which  a  cheerful  mascu 
line  optimism  may  be  sustained  without  an  exhausting 
effort  of  the  will.  Toiling  along  the  valley  in  his  decrepit 
emigrant  wagon,  it  was  hardly  to  be  expected  that  he 
should  feel  cheerful.  But  there  was  more  than  the  weather 
and  the  wagon  to  complain  of.  He  had  a  sickly  wife 
and  two  healthy,  grown-up  daughters  on  his  hands  ;  and, 
worse  than  all  the  rest,  not  a  drop  of  comfort  had  passed 
his  lips  since  six  o'clock  this  morning,  and  it  was  now 
almost  nine. 

The  good  man  was  feeling  the  coercion  of  circum 
stances  in  a  lively  manner.  He  was  disgusted  with  life. 
However,  that  was  nothing  new.  Indeed,  it  was  notice 
able  that  Mr.  Pugsley  was  always  either  disgusted  with 
life  or  madly  in  love  with  it,  according  to  the  condition 
of  his  bottle.  Just  now  the  very  sky  was  hateful,  the 
landscape  was  insulting  in  its  arrogant  immobility.  The 
mountains  especially  stirred  him  to  unreasoning  rebel 
lion.  He  longed  to  kick  them  out  of  sight  beyond  the 
horizon  ;  he  hated  them  more  than  he  could  have  done 
had  they  pointed  derisive  fingers  and  hooted  their  scorn 
of  him  ;  he  hated  everything  more  than  he  had  ever  done 
in  all  his  life  before.  The  two  skinny,  straining  horses 
were  repulsive  as  a  picture  of  conscientious,  futile  en 
deavor.  Mr.  Pugsley  was  not  in  a  mood  to  contemplate 
pictures  of  conscientious  endeavor  that  worked  with  small 
result  to  lessen  the  distance  between  that  point  and  the 
next  tavern.  He  cursed  the  poor  beasts  mentally  while 
he  lashed  them  with  his  great  rawhide,  thinking  all  the 


IN  THE  VALLR  Y  OF  HA  VILAII.  1 5 

time  that  he  could  manage  to  put  up  with  that  snail's  pace 
if  they  would  only  resent  his  ill-usage  with  as  much  as  a 
turn  of  their  drooping  ears  or  a  twist  of  their  mangy  tails. 
It  angered  him  to  know  that  he  was  expending  his  ener 
gies  on  flesh  quite  callous  to  the  sting  of  his  whip  :  he 
might  as  well  cowhide  a  stone  wall  for  all  the  relief  it 
afforded  his  feelings.  He  wanted  to  make  something  cry 
out  and  implore. 

He  had  entered  the  valley  early  in  the  morning  :  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reach  the  camp  of  Havilah  before 
noon — three  long  hours  yet.  That  made  in  all  six  hours 
of  unmodified  thirst  between  drinks.  Good  heavens  ! 
what  was  the  world  coming  to  ?  Why,  in  the  improvident 
moment  of  comfort  succeeding  his  morning's  glass  had 
he  decided  to  keep  his  remaining  six  bits  to  provide  a 
slice  of  bacon  for  the  family  on  reaching  Havilah  instead 
of  filling  his  bottle  like  a  Christian  and  faring  sumptuous 
ly  all  the  way  ?  At  this  point  his  reflections  on  his  own 
strength  of  mind  were  by  no  means  flattering.  Decidedly, 
he  had  acted  the  part  of  a  fool.  When  a  man  begins  to 
call  himself  a  fool,  and  to  believe  what  he  says,  his  dis 
tress  is  indeed  great.  A  deficiency  of  nervous  fibre  in 
the  animal  organism  does  not  necessarily  indicate  a  dul- 
ness  of  all  sensation  and  emotion  ;  it  is  easy  to  believe 
that  a  cubic  inch  of  chalk  is  the  cemetery  of  unnumbered 
lively  joys  and  sorrows,  granting  that  the  animalcules  of 
ancient  ocean  beds  were  capable  of  caring  for  their  dinner. 
Probably  Mr.  Pugsley's  pangs  were  no  less  severe  because 
he  belonged  to  an  undeveloped  variety  of  the  human 
species  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  fact  may  be  adduced  as  an 
argument  in  favor  of  the  keener  poignancy  of  his  griefs, 
for  is  not  development  itself  a  series  of  pangs  accompany 
ing  a  protracted  yearning  for  the  unattainable  ?  And  are 
not  the  pangs  of  growth  at  least  as  vivid  as  those  of  sub 
sequent  fulfilment  ? 


1 6  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Mr.  Pugsley  turned  on  his  seat  and  scowled  back  at 
the  occupants  of  the  wagon  as  if  to  fill  up  a  gap  in  his 
anger  by  contemplating  its  adjuncts. 

There  was  Mrs.  Pugsley,  a  hatchet-faced,  moist-looking 
woman  of  past  forty,  who  may  be  described  as  looking 
less  like  herself  than  the  fading  consciousness  of  herself. 
Vapid,  featureless,  disintegrated,  she  seemed  to  be  pass 
ing  through  a  slow  process  of  evaporation  in  which  the 
atmosphere  assisted.  She  was  reclining  on  a  bundle  of 
dirty  blankets  and  damp  straw,  with*  an  unwashed  skillet 
threatening  her  ear,  and  one  coarse  shoe,  unlaced  and 
flapping  wide  in  betrayal  of  an  undarned  stocking,  repos 
ing  half  way  inside  a  lidless  coffee-pot.  Her  eyes  were 
closed,  and  occasionally  she  put  her  hand  to  her  head 
in  impatient  pain.  Behind  her  was  Maud  Eliza,  the 
youngest  of  the  family,  a  strapping  miss  of  eighteen,  who 
was  staring  stupidly  at  the  muddy  wagon-track  and 
plaiting  and  unplaiting  her  soiled  apron  in  intervals  of 
yawning.  Maud  Eliza  was  a  sort  of  incipient  fool.  She 
was  never  quite  herself  unless  she  was  giggling,  and  at 
her  best  she  had  never  been  known  to  do  more  than  make  a 
desultory  remark  of  less  than  average  intelligence.  Maria, 
the  elder  of  the  sisters,  and  the  strong-minded  one  of  the 
family,  was  fast  asleep  in  the  back  of  the  wagon,  bolt  up 
right  and  open-mouthed,  quite  undisturbed  by  the  heav 
ing  and  plunging  of  the  unwieldy  vehicle. 

Mr.  Pugsley  was  in  a  humor  to  expatiate  on  the  hard 
ships  of  a  man  doomed  to  take  care  of  a  family  of  women. 
Just  now  his  daughters  seemed  hardly  less  disagreeable 
in  th3ir  over-measure  of  health  than  did  their  mother  in 
her  never-ending  fretfulness  and  complaining.  What  had 
they  been  born  for,  the  whole  three  of  them  ?  What  was  of 
the  use  such  incapacity — of  such  sickliness  and  ineffectual 
health?  Those  bouncing  girls,  with  their  broad  shoulders 
and  red  cheeks — why  had  such  health  been  given  to  them  if 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  7 

not  to  be  turned  somehow  to  the  advantage  of  the  family  ? 
And  yet  those  girls  had  never  even  earned  their  salt. 
Now,  think  of  that,  said  Mr.  Pugsley  to  himself — never 
even  earned  their  salt.  Were  they  not  as  able  to  work 
for  their  living  as  he  was  ?  And,  if  so,  why  hadn't  they 
done  it  ?  He  asked  the  question  with  a  flourish  of 
mental  oratory  that  surprised  himself.  Why  hadn't  they 
done  it  ?  He  gave  a  slash  at  the  melancholy  steeds,  and 
then  glared  back  at  his  female  dependents.  Why,  indeed  ? 
They  could  do  it,  and,  by  hokey,  they  should  do  it  if  ever 
them  gumgummed  old  plugs — Mr.  Pugsley  used  a  stronger 
adjective — dragged  him  and  his  gumgummed  family  into 
camp  at  Havilah.  They'd  find  out  a  thing  or  two  then, 
or  he  was  much  mistaken.  They'd  see  then  who  was 
the  head  of  the  family  and  who  was  to  be  obeyed.  He 
felt  greatly  injured,  greatly  in  earnest.  His  thirstiness 
filled  him  with  an  overpowering  sense  of  wrong,  and  he 
resolved  that  the  future  should  be  revolutionary  and  re 
formatory.  Those  girls  should  go  to  work.  He  had  had 
enough  of  this. 

There  was  Maria  snoring  contentedly  in  her  corner — he 
wished  with  all  his  heart  that  she  would  bite  her  tongue  as 
the  wagon  made  one  of  its  sudden,  -crazy  lunges.  It  would 
have  done  him  good  just  to  hear  her  scream  ;  though, 
come  to  think  of  it,  he  had  never  heard  Maria  scream- 
she  wasn't  one  of  that  kind.  It  was  more  like  her  to  make 
other  folks  scream  than  do  it  herself.  She  had  a  temper 
Maria  had.  He  had  always  hesitated  about  crossing  her 
will — he  admitted  that  he  was  a  trifle  afraid  of  her,  even 
in  his  present  mood  of  wrathful  recrimination.  There  was 
such  an  unpleasantlook  in  her  eye  when  her  temper  was 
fired,  and  she  was  uncommonly  strong  in  her  arms,  too, 
as  he  had  good  reason  to  remember.  He  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  there  was  but  little  community  of  feeling  be 
tween  his  eldest  daughter  and  himself.  She  had  fallen 


1 8  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

into  a  state  of  chronic  objection,  she  disapproved  of  all  his 
habits  ;  it  had  been  largely  through  her  interference  that 
he  had  kept  that  six  bits  in  his  pocket  this  very  morning, 
instead  of  having  his  bottle  filled  like  a  man  of  sense  ;  and 
here  was  the  consequence  of  it.  Well !  he  would  pay  her 
for  that  when  they  got  to  Havilah.  Maria  should  go  to 
work.  He  nodded  his  head  emphatically  as  he  drama 
tized  himself  in  the  act  of  making  her  do  what  she  disliked. 
To  be  sure,  she  had  always  had  her  own  way — she  knew 
what  she  didn't  want  and  acted  accordingly — but  did  that 
signify  that  she  was  always  going  to  keep  it  up  ?  Mr. 
Pugsley  thought  not.  This  thing  had  gone  far  enough, 
Maria  should  go  to  work — if  he  could  make  her. 

As  for  Maud  Eliza,  the  giggler,  he  had  no  doubt  of  his 
ability  to  manage  her.  And  he  would  put  an  end  to  her 
everlasting  tittering,  which  was  always  forthcoming  as  a 
sort  of  standing  exclamation  point  to  Maria's  sarcasms 
against  him  who,  by  virtue  of  his  position  as  husband  and 
father,  ought  to  be  revered  and  cherished  by  his  depen 
dents,  not  trodden  underfoot  and  insulted.  Mr.  Pugsley 
Straightened  himself  after  arriving  at  this  conclusion.  The 
thought  of  his  ability  to  make  others  uncomfortable  brought 
a  glimpse  of  comfort  into  his  miserable  present — revived 
him  like  a  river  that  waters  a  thirsty  land. 

He  cast  a  look  of  inclusive  vindictiveness  at  the  uncon 
scious  group  behind  him,  but  his  eye  rested  longest  and 
most  malevolently  upon  his  wife.  There  was  the  prime 
cause  of  all  his  woes — that  woman  ;  had  he  never  set  eyes 
on  her,  what  might  he  not  be  by  this  time  ?  State  senator, 
perhaps,  or — delicious  possibility  ! — proprietor  of  a  gin- 
shop  on  Dupont  Street,  in  San  Francisco.  He  ground  his 
teeth  together  with  rage  at  the  thought.  That  woman — 
she  had  been  a  chain  to  his  neck,  an  obstacle  to  his  feet 
since  the  first  day  he  met  her.  And  it  was  she  who  ob 
jected  this  very  morning,  seconding  Maria  in  that  whin- 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  9 

ing  voice  of  hers,  when  he  paid  two  bits  at  the  last  tavern 
for  his  ringer  of  the  oh-be-joyful — had  begged  him  to  buy 
her  a  ham  sandwich  instead,  advancing  as  an  argument 
that  otherwise  she  should  immediately  take  measures  to 
die.  Ham  sandwich,  indeed  !  Was  it  a  time  to  talk  of 
ham  sandwiches  when  his  last  dollar  was  busted  in  a  land 
where  budge  was  two  bits  a  glass  ? 

And  here  she  was,  with  her  two  infernal  healthy  bjats 
lolling  about  like  a  trio  of  ladies  out  for  an  airing,  while 
he  — they  might  as  well  openly  mock  at  his  distress  as  be 
thus  indifferent  to  it. 

He  could  bear  it  no  longer.  His  rage  strangled  him. 
His  outraged  feelings,  confined  too  long  to  one  channel 
broke  forth  in  violence.  He  reached  over  and  gave  his  wife 
a  deliberate,  vicious  poke  in  the  ribs  with  the  butt  of  his 
whip.  (Such  modes  of  expressing  masculine  ideas  with 
their  original  subjective  intensity  are  not  yet  obsolete  in 
California). 

Mrs.  Pusgsley  started  convulsively,  gave  a  stifled  groan 
and  opened  her  eyes.  Then,  raising  herself  on  one  el 
bow,  she  stared  at  him,  wide-eyed  and  helpless,  catching 
her  breath.  She  made  no  attempt  at  retaliation.  She 
seemed  to  dread  a  repetition  of  the  brutal  thrust. 

"Oh,  Ephraim  !  "  she  gasped,  finally,  falling  back  and 
clutching  her  side. 

"  'Oh,  Ephraim!'"  mimicked  her  spouse,  glaring  at 
her  with  bleared,  furious  eyes.  "Did  ye  say  l  oh,  Eph 
raim  '  to  me  'n'  in  that  air  tone  o'  voice  ?  Did  ye  ?  I'll  '  oh, 
Ephraim '  ye!"  And  he  gave  the  helpless  creature  an 
other  deliberate  poke,  boring  the  whipstock  into  her  side 
with  ferocious  enjoyment. 

The  woman  sprang  up,  aghast  and  screaming. 

"Oh,  Lord  A'mighty,  ye've  killed  me!  "  she  cried,  in 
a  shrill  half-shriek,  "  ye've  run  the  whipstock  clean  through 
me!" 


20  -W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"  I'll  larn  ye  !  "  growled  Ephraim,  just  as  he  saw  Maria 
opening  her  eyes  from  her  nap.  "  I'll  larn  ye  !  " 

"What's  he  been  doin'  to  ye?"  cried  the  girl,  only  half 
awake.  "  '  She  been  layin'  hands  on  ye  ?  Shall  I  thump 
'im  ? " 

Mrs.  Pugsley  had  settled  back  again  among  the  blankets 
and  was  clutching  her  side  hysterically.  For  some  time 
she  could  not  speak,  but  raised  herself  repeatedly  with 
painful  exhalations.  She  recovered,  however,  sooner  than 
was  to  be  expected.  Probably  it  was  not  the  first  attack 
of  the  kind  from  which  she  had  recovered. 

"  He'll  be  the  death  o'  me  yet,"  she  began  presently,  in 
a  high  wailing  voice.  "I've  knowed  it — I've  felt  it  in  my 
bones  for  years,  'n'  now  here  'tis.  'N'  I  wa'n't  doin'  nothin 
nuther, — ye  know  I  wa'n't,  Ephraim, — not  the  fust  blessed 
thing.  Why  couldn't  ye  lernine  be  ?  I  didn't  say  nothin' 
'n'  I  wa'n't  a-tetchin'  o'  ye,  but  was  behavin'  decent  'n' 
'spectable,  jes'  's  I  was  learned  to,  allus.  Oh,  Lord,  my 
side,  my  side  !  Ye've  smashed  it  clean  in — I  know  by 
the  feelin'  o'  it  t  yeVe  smashed  it  clean  in  !  r 

"  I'll  larn  ye  !  "  repeated  Ephraim,  alarmed  at  the  look 
on  Maria's  face,  which  he  perceived,  as  the  saying  goes, 
with  the  tail  of  his  eye. 

"  I  don't  see  what  I've  done  to  be  used  so  fer, "  con 
tinued  Mrs.  Pugsley,  closing  her  eyes  and  clutching  her 
side,  while  the  tears  oozed  forth  copiously.  "  I  don't  see 
why  I  can't  be  let  'lone  when  I'm  behavin'  decent  'n' 
'spectable.  What's  the  use  o'  knowin'  how  to  behave  if  a 
body  can't  be  let  'lone  when  they're  doin'  it  ?  I  didn't  do 
nothin'  to  be  poked  fer — I  don't  never  do  nothin',  n'  the 
hull  kit  'n'  possey  o'  ye  know  it's  well  's  what  I  do.  I 
was  behavin'  myself  like  a  lady,  peaceable  n'  quiet. 
When  I  was  a  Swipes  '  fore  I  was  married  I  wa'n't  battered 
about  like  this  'ere.  I  don't  harm  nobody,  'n'  the  world's 
wide  'n'  they's  room  'nough  in  it  'thout  quar'lin.  Oh, 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  & 

Lord,  my  side  !  Ye've  done  fer  me  this  time — ye've 
bored  a  hole  clean  through  the  ribs  o'  me — ye've  mixed 
my  lungs  'n'  liver  all  together  !  " 

' '  The  devil  was  allus  in  ye, "  declared  Ephraim  in  weak 
self-justification. 

"  I  knowed  suthin'  was  goin  to  happen,  though — I  had 
a  dream  las'  night  'n'  I  knowed  well  'nough,  twas  a  warn- 
in',"  continued  the  moist  woman,  assuming  the  adjuring 
tone  of  asp  interpreter  of  dreams  and  omens.  "I  dreamt  I 
was  dressed  up  beautiful  in  a  ruffled  gown  ?n'  hoops  'n'  was 
a  stan'in'  on  a  platform  singin'  Sweet  Belle  Mahone  like  a 
bird  in  a  tree  when  the  audience  commenced  yellin'  fer 
me  to  stop,  'n'  when  I  didn't  they  fired  beer-mugs  into  me 
till  my  face  was  all  cut  'n'  bleedin'  'n'  I  woke  up  a-scream- 
in'.  'N'  now  here's  what  it  meant !  " 

' '  What's  he  been  doin'  to  ye  ?  "  demanded  Maria  again, 
now  fully  awake.  Her  voice  held  a  menace  for  her  father, 
even  while  it  was  roughly  sympathetic  for  her  mother's 
pain. 

"  Oh,  nothin',  nothin'  !  "  repeated  the  moist  woman, 
drearily.  "It  don't  matter,  nohow.  It's  only  me.  I 
ain't  nobody.  Oh,  why  was  I  ever  borned  into  this  'ere 
world  ?  " 

"  That's  what  I'd  like  to  know,"  put  in  Ephraim, 
sharply. 

"  Everybody's  forgot  't  I  was  a  Swipes  wunst  'n'  lived 
in  style,"  complained  Mrs.  Pugsley,  her  present  wretched 
ness  reawakening  vibrations  of  memory.  "  I'm  a  pure,  no 
'count  criter.  Nobody  ain't  proud  o'  me." 

"  I  want  to  know  what  he's  been  doin'  to  ye,"  insisted 
Maria,  impatiently. 

"  Oh,  he  didn't  do  nothin' — leastways  nothin'  fer  ye  to 
mind  'bout,"  replied  Mrs.  Pugley  in  the  montonous  sing 
song  of  superficial  resignation.  "  I  don't  want  ye  to 
quar'l  with  'im  o'  my  'count.  I  ain't  nobody  to  fight  over, 


22  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

if  I  was  wunst  a  Swipes  o'  Swipes's  Bar.  Oh,  dear  !  oh 
my  side  !  Never  mind  what  he's  been  a-doin'  to  me.  I 
don't  want  ye  quar'lin' — the  world's  wide  'nough  to 
keep  shet  o'  that.  Oh,  Lord  !  "  Here  an  overpowering 
sense  of  injury  overcame  Mrs.  Pugsley's  faint  desire  to 
keep  her  husband  and  daughter  from  a  personal  encoun 
ter,  and  she  drifted  into  renewed  reproaches.  "  'N '  I 
wan't  a-doin'  the  fust  blessed  thing — not  the  fust  blessed 
thing.  Oh,  I  wish  't  I  was  dead,  I  do — I  do — I  don't  care 
where  or  how.  A  grave's  the  least  important  thing  o' 
life — I  wish't  I  was  dead  'n'  buried  under  the  wet  mud 
where  he'd  have  to  lemme  be  !  " 

Despairing  of  finding  out  the  truth  from  her  mother, 
Maria  turned,  as  a  last  resort,  to  her  father. 

"  What  a'  ye  been  doin'  to  'er  ? "  she  demanded. 

"  None  o'  yer  bizness  ! "  snapped  the  head  of  the 
family. 

"  I'll  make  it  some  o'  my  bizness  if  ye  don't  keep  yer 
paws  off  ma,"  threatened  Maria. 

"  Oh,  ye  will,  will  ye?"  sneered  the  father. 

"  Yes,  I  will  !  "  she  cried,  fiercely.  "  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
set  by  'n'  see  'er  'bused  by  nobody — much  less  by  a  ole 
coward  like  you  !  " 

"  Never  mind,  never  mind,"  quavered  the  moist  wo 
man,  drawing  her  foot  out  of  the  coffee-pot  and  trying  to 
look  impressive.  "  Don't  fight  'n'  quar'l  over  me — I  ain't 
nobody.  It'll  all  come  back  to  'im  after  I'm  dead.  It's 
many  a  pore  night's  rest  he'll  have  then  with  my  sperrit 
a-moanin'  'n'  a  groanin'  round  '  im  in  the  dark.  I  can't 
last  forever.  I've  been  dyin'  these  twenty  odd  year,  'n' 
it'll  soon  be  over  now  !  " 

Ever  since  the  beginning  of  the  controversy  Maud 
Eliza  had  been  sitting  in  her  corner  of  the  wagon  in 
dulging  in  an  uninterrupted  sequence  of  snickers  that 
seemed  likely  to  end  kin  asphyxia  or  dislocation,  but  at 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  V1LAH.  23 

the  prospect  of  peace  conveyed  in  her  mother's  resigned 
tones,  she  sobered  herself  by  an  effort  Peace  after  war 
was  to  her  something  like  prose  after  poetry.  She  had 
felt  the  need  of  excitement  for  some  time,  and'a  family 
broil  satisfied  a  present  craving  of  hers.  She  seized  her 
apron  with  both  hands  in  keen  expectant  delight  and 
whispered  across  the  wagon  to  Maria  : 

"I  jess  soon  tell  what  he  done  if  neither  o'  them  won't. 
He  poke4  'er  in  the  ribs  with  the  butt  o'  his  gad — that's 
what  he  done — 'an,  made  'er  squeak  awful,  'n'  he  done  it 
vicious,  'n'  I  seen  'im,  too  !  " 


24  M  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  III. 

A  SILENCE  fell  upon  the  contentions  of  the  Pugsleys — a 
moment  prophetic  of  an  oncoming  rush  of  moral  wind 
and  thunder  which  put  all  things  in  a  state  of  uncertain 
ty  and  rilled  the  air  with  the  expectation  of  violent  change. 
One  could  see  Maria's  anger  rising — it  could  almost  be 
felt. 

Ephraim,  who  could  hardly  have  upheld  his  paternal 
authority  even  among  those  Oriental  races  where  to  be  a 
father  is  to  have  a  guaranty  of  filial  reverence,  felt  a 
growing  dread  of  the  conflict.  Maud  Eliza,  certain  that 
the  battle  was  about  to  be  renewed,  caught  her  breath 
in  a  sort  of  ecstasy,  then  threw  her  dingy  apron  over 
her  head  and  relapsed  into  griping  convulsions  of  unre 
strained  giggles. 

Maria's  eyes  flashed  like  the  eyes  of  an  untamed  angry 
horse.  She  turned  on  her  father  with  clenched  hands 
and  set  teeth. 

"Ye  poked  ma  in  the  ribs  with  the  butt  o'  yer  gad  !  " 
she  cried. 

Mrs.  Pugsley,  who  had  been  originally  of  a  poetic  turn  of 
mind  in  the  days  of  the  Swipeses  of  Swipes's  Bar,  opened 
her  eyes  at  this  point  and  began  in  a  premonitory  manner  : 

"  Don't  quar'l — don't  quar'l  'n'  git  to  hatin'  o'  each  other," 
she  said,  weakly  attempting  the  blessed  role  of  peace 
maker.  "  The  world's  wide  'nough  to  stay  in  'thout  hatin' 
o'  each  other.  Hate  is  darkness  'n'  love  is  light,"  she 
added,  soaring  into  sentiment. 

But  Maria  was  not  in  a  mood  to  sentimentalize.  She 
was  mastered  by  a  great  longing  to  do  something  vio- 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH,  25 

lently  retributive.  At  these  moments  of  robust  indignation 
she  was  capable  of  such  lawless  deeds  as  spring  from  the 
undisputed  egotism  of  Eastern  tyrants.  The  considera 
tion  that  the  one  she  proposed  to  punish  was  her  father 
had  no  weight  against  her  impulse  of  pitiless  self-asser 
tion  ;  the  paternal  relationship  held  no  sacredness  for 
her  ;  she  only  realized  that  the  weak  had  been  maltreated 
by  the  strong,  and  that  it  was  in  her  power  to  make  the 
aggressor  suffer  the  full  measure  of  pain  he  had  inflicted. 
She  did  not  pause  to  calculate  the  means  by  which  an 
equilibrium  of  justice  for  her  mother  could  be  restored  ; 
she  was  given  up  wholly  to  a  blind  zeal  to  assert  her 
disapproval  in  peremptory  actions  whose  consequences 
could  hardly  pass  beyond  the  jurisdiction  of  her  will. 
The  ill,  complaining  mother  had  become  to  her  a  sort  of 
reservoir  for  the  emotions  which  had  been  shut  off  from 
other  outward  leading  channels.  Her  feeling  may  have 
been  less  selfish  than  that — one  phase  of  that  good  which 
makes  us  all  akin,  which  is  deeply  hidden,  perhaps,  like 
tarnished  gold  in  an  Etruscan  tomb,  but  eventually  comes 
forth  bright  and  shining  into  the  open  day. 

Mr.  Pugsley  inwardly  quailed  before  the  girl,  but  he 
had  resolved  to  make  a  stand.  In  his  domestic  govern 
ment  he  had  never  been  conscious  of  more  than  a  spin 
dling  outgrowth  of  that  corrective  faculty  which  Nature  has 
implanted  vigorously  in  most  men,  so  that  his  children 
had  got  on  with  little  or  no  assistance  from  him  and  had 
come  to  regard  his  occasional  intervention  as  an  unwar 
rantable  interference  with  the  operation  of  their  own 
sweet  wills  ;  consequently  he  felt  uncertain  of  his  ground 
at  the  very  beginning  of  this  domestic  revolution,  and  was 
half-injclined  to  beat  a  hasty  retreat  before  engaging  in 
actual  combat  with  his  doughty  daughter.  But,  no  ;  it 
was  well  enough  for  Maria  to  defend  herself  when  oc 
casion  required,  but  by  what  right  had  she  constituted 


26  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

herself  the  body-guard  of  her  mother?  Wasn't  he  the  old 
woman's  rightful  protector — her  husband  ?  And  if  he 
saw  nothing  wrong  in  the  treatment  she  received  at  the 
hands  of  people,  whose  business  was  it  to  complain  ? 
Not  Maria's,  surely.  The  fact  was,  that  girl  was  getting 
too  big  for  her  clothes — she  must  be  brought  to  a  true 
knowledge  of  her  relations  to  superior  powers.  This  thing 
of  her  running  the  whole  Pugsley  institution  had  gone  far 
enough.  He  would  be  firm  with  his  daughter. ,  He 
would  show  her — with  the  next  tavern  three  hours  ahead 
— that  he  intended  to  be  master  in  his  own  family. 

Reinforced  by  this  logic,  he  turned  on  his  daughter 
with  some  spirit. 

"  Well,  what  if  I  did  poke  the  old  gal  in  the  ribs  ?  "  he 
demanded.  "  Ain't  she  my  prop'ty  to  poke  in  the  ribs  if 
I  want  to?" 

Mr.  Pugsley  felt  considerable  confidence  in  his  intel 
lectual  powers  when  he  devoted  them  to  argument.  A 
girl  with  Maria's  exceptional  mental  character  could  hard 
ly  fail  to  see  the  force  of  such  luminous  reasoning.  She 
was  a  reasonable  young  woman,  Maria  was,  barring  a 
hint  of  prejudice  which  always  inclined  her  to  take  sides 
with  her  mother  ;  and  just  now  her  temper  seemed  a  little 
riled.  These  two  points  might  lead  her  into  ill-considered 
judgments,  but  Mr.  Pugsley  felt,  with  a  consciousness  of 
firmer  nerve  tension,  that  his  logic  was  incontrovertible ; 
and  if  Maria  was  not  in  the  mood  to  admit  the  superi 
ority  of  his  arguments,  why,  so  much  the  worse  for  her. 

' 'By  hokey,  she  is  my  prop'ty/'he  cried,  with  the  fiery 
haste  of  conviction,  "'ri  I'm  goin'  to  poke  'er  again  !  " 

He  raised  the  whip  and  pointed  the  butt  of  it  toward 
the  prostrate  woman,  ready  to  give  her  a  sudderuihrust. 
The  frightened  creature  shrieked  and  shrank  back,  whim 
pering  helplessly,  and  huddling  herself  together  to  avoid 
the  stroke. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVI'LAH.  27 

"  Don't — don't,  Ephraim  !  "  she  gasped,  hysterically, 
flinging  up  her  hands,  but  not  daring  to  push  the  whip 
aside  lest  she  feel  the  force  of  it  sooner.  "  It'll  kill  me — 
I  can't  stan'  it  agin — please  don't,  good,  kind  Ephraim  ! " 
Her  voice  died  away  in  hoarse,  gasping  appeal. 

Maria  flung  herself  across  her  mother's  body  and  shook 
her  fist  in  the  old  man's  face.  It  was  the  fist  of  a  genuine 
frontier's  woman — as  strong  as  a  man's,  and  as  ready  to 
caress  as  tb  strike, 

"  Let  up  on  that !  "  she  cried,  in  a  voice  that  tightened 
her  throat  and  seemed  to  choke  her.  "If  ye  tetch  'er 
agin  I'll  knock  ye  stiff — I'll  spatter  yer  whiskey  brains 
out  into  the  mud  ! " 

She  looked  a  very  devil  as  she  raised  herself  above  him 
with  uplifted  arms,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her  dishevelled 
hair  streaming,  the  red  fire  burning  in  her  eyes.  He  felt 
her  breath  touch  his  face  hot  and  quick,  and  threw  up  his 
elbow  between  her  and  him,  then  peered  out  at  her 
threatening  arm. 

"I — I  ain't  a  goin'  to  tetch  'er  !  "  he  cried  in  a  hasty, 
terrified  voice.  ' l  Put  down  yer  arm — don't  strike — I  wa'n't 
a-goin'  to  donothin.'  I  ain't  well,  Mariar,  'n'  I  can't  stan' 
oneo' yerthumpin's  to-day — I  can't,  really,  I  wa'n'tagoin' 
to  tetch  'er  !  " 

"Oh,"  cried  the  girl  with  fierce  scorn.  "Ye  wan't 
a-goin'  to  tetch  'er  with  yer  whip  already  aimed  'n'  yer 
han's  a-itchin',  was  ye  ?  Oh,  no  !  Put  down  that  air 
whip,  now,  quicker  'n  the  Lord  '11  let  ye.  Ye're  a  fine 
specimen,  ain't  ye,  wigglin'  aroun'  there  like  a  bug  under 
a  chip  !  The  world's  a-missin'  a  heap  't  it  ain't  got  more 
like  ye,  ain't  it  now?  Bah  !  Ye  ain't  wuth  slappin  ' !  " 

Mr.  .Pugsley,  though  he  saw  that  she  probably  would 
not  strike,  edged  farther  away  from  her  and  sat  cringing, 
with  his  head  drawn  down  between  his  shoulders  like  a 
frightened  tortoise  in  its  shell.  He  experienced  a  swift 


28  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

and  grateful  sense  of  deliverance  when  at  last  Maria  set 
tled  back  into  her  place — a  feeling  which  was  compen 
sation  enough  even  for  the  lingering  consciousness  that 
he  had  tottered  and  fallen  flat  where  he  had  intended  to 
walk  stately.  As  for  Maud  Eliza,  she  had  retired  again 
behind  her  apron  and  only  emerged  after  several  moments 
when  quite  limp  and  exhausted. 

The  wagon  plunged  on  in  splashy  silence.  The  sun 
grew  warmer,  the  ground  steamed.  Not  a  cloud  appeared 
in  the  void  of  blue,  shapeless  air.  They  passed  an  open 
ing  in  the  foothills  where  a  milk-white  lake  lay  asleep  in 
the  sun  with  the  mists  like  torn  curtains  .fluttering  raggedly 
about  the  near  heights.  The  air  was  full  of  the  sound  of 
the  river — such  a  hymn  as  the  morning  stars  once  sang  to 
gether  ;  and  for  a  little  while  a  crystal-clear  tributary  of 
the  river  flowed  beside  the  road,  with  the  sunshine  beat 
ing  time  on  its  water  to  the  tinkling  melody  sung  beneath. 
All  else  was  hushed  :  the  pines  on  the  near  foothills  were 
inaudible  :  there  was  no  wind.  But  to  the  eye  the  land 
scape  spoke.  There  was  a  massive  eloquence  in  the  wide- 
reaching  gray  plain  and  the  desolate  foothills — a  language 
of  stupendous  stoicism  and  eternal  calm.  The  Pugsleys 
saw  nothing,  thought  nothing  of  these  externals.  They 
were  occupied  with  the  trivial  passions  of  their  lives,  filled 
with  the  petty  spites  and  inconsistencies  of  egotism,  look 
ing  forward,  backward,  sidewise,  with  an  aimlessness 
which  saw  in  Nature  but  a  pallid  reflection  of  their  needs. 

Mr.  Pugsley  regarded  the  laboring  horses  attentively 
for  some  time.  His  bleared  eyes  held  an  expression  of 
profound  meditation,  of  metaphysical  inquiry.  He  had  a 
coward's  respect  for  the  conqueror,  and  was  always  anx 
ious  to  be  reconciled  to  one  who  was  stronger  than  he. 
Finally  he  turned  in  his  seat  and  looked  back  at  his  daugh 
ter  with  grim  approval. 

"I've  said  it  afore,  'n'  I  mean  it,  't  ye're  the  Devil's 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 


29 


Own,  Mariar,"  he  declared  in  a  voice  which  betrayed  in 
voluntary  admiration.  It  was  his  way  of  acknowledging 
his  daughter's  supremacy. 

Maria  accepted  the  compliment  as  a  soldier  receives 
his  pay — as  the  just  due  of  valor  and  ability.  She  only 
blinked  slightly.  Her  father  had  complimented  her  in 
like  manner  under  like  circumstances  many  times  before, 
and  she  had  grown  quite  accustomed  to  her  title  of  the 
Devil's  OvVn,  and  was  even  proud  of  it. 

"  Ye've  got  yer father's  own  grit,"  proceeded  Ephraim, 
decidedly,  but  still  with  something  of  the  timidity  in 
spired  by  an  overawing  presence.  "  N'  ye  ain't  no  call 
to  be'  shamed  o'  that.  It  ain't  every  gal  '  t  's  got  a  father 
like  your'n  to  take  after.  Moreover — " 

"  It  ain't  every  gal  't  's  got  a  father  't  she  has  to  take 
after  to  keep  him  from  thumpin'  'er  mother/'  suggested 
Maria. 

Mr.  Pugsley  waived  the  insinuation. 

"  Ye  must  admit,  Mariar,  it's  very  tryin'  to  a  man  to 
have  to  put  up  with  some  things  sometimes/'  he  said, 
"  They  ain't  no  use  talkin'  'n'  tryin'  to  smooth  it  over,  a 
family  can  be  a  gummed  nuisance  wunst  in  a  while." 
Mr.  Pugsley 's  courage  was  increasing  with  the  sound  of  his 
voice,  but  he  thought  best  to  pronounce  his  didacticisms 
in  general  terms,  as  the  least  offensive  method  of  produc 
ing  an  offensive  impression. 

"  Ye  seem  well  'nough  contented  withyer  fam'ly  when 
yer  bottle's  full/'  remarked  Maria. 

Mr.  Pugsley  waived  this  insinuation  also. 

"The  great  fault  with  ye  is,  Maria,"  he  said  in  a 
mildly  admonitory  tone,  "  '  t  ye  don't  seem  to  know  when 
a  man's  playful  'n'  when  he's  in  earnest.  Ye  don't  seem 
to  see  which  is  which.  Now,  ye  orter  cultervate  that  air 
faculty  ;  no  woman's  'magination  's  complete  'thout  it. 
If  s  what  ye  need  'n'  I'll  help  ye  do  it,  off  'n'  on,  's  I  git 


30  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

time.  I  was  only  foolin'.  I  jus*  wanted  to  rouse  the  ole 
gal  up  V  make  'er  feel  lively.  That's  all." 

Maria  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"  We  won't  have  no  more  sech  rousin'  'n'  foolin V'  she 
said,  with  decision.  "  It  ain't  becomin'  to  a  man  o'  yer 
age  V  style  o'  beauty." 

At  this  choice  bit  of  repartee  Maud  Eliza  giggled  till  she 
strangled,  and  finally  sobered  up  in  a  condition  of  utter 
diaphragmatic  collapse.  On  the  whole,  the  Pugsleys  had 
enjoyed  their  little  quarrel  as  an  agreeable  diversion. 
Ephraim  experienced  a  sense  of  relief,  as  if  a  stop-cock 
had  been  thrown  open  in  the  reservoir  of  his  wrath, 
leaving  little  of  the  original  element  behind,  and  that 
below  the  present  level  of  escape.  Mrs.  Pugsley  regard 
ed  herself  as  a  martyr  visited  with  peculiar  afflictions  and 
endowed  with  extraordinary  powers  of  meeting  them 
heroically  ;  while  Maria  was  glad  of  another  opportunity 
of  demonstrating  her  ability  to  protect  her  mother. 

The  Pugsleys  are  humanity  in  its  rudimentary  state. 
In  them,  as  in  every  mother's  son  of  us,  are  those  germs 
of  saints  and  devils  which  Nature  has  implanted  in  every 
soul,  and  whose  growth  and  development  blind  circum 
stance  determines. 


THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  31 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  novelist  who  is  bold  enough  to  write  of  such  people 
as  these  Should  make  up  his  mind  beforehand  to  stand 
constantly  in  an  apologetic  attitude  between  them  and 
the  polite  reader,  offering  iterated  excuses  for  their  exist 
ence,  and  covering  up  as  best  he  may  their  frequent  lapses 
of  decency  and  grammar  ;  for  the  ethics  of  art  have  long 
taught  that,  if  vulgar  people  must  be  painted,  they  must 
be  painted  picturesquely,  inoffensively — in  a  word,  not 
as  they  are,  with  blotched  complexions  and  clothing  torn 
in  unmentionable  places,  but  with  an  ideal  barbarity  of 
exterior  which  pleases  and  never  repels.  Leaving  out  the 
artistic  part  of  the  question,  let  me  say,  in  extenuation  of 
certain  prominent  moral  delinquencies  discoverable  in  the 
characters  in  this  book,  that  probably  the  best  of  us  have 
felt  at  times  that  this  world  is  a  bad  place  to  be  good  in. 
Necessarily  it  is  a  particularly  bad  place  for  the  Pugsleys, 
to  whom  the  stimulus  of  lofty  example  has  always  been 
lacking,  and  whose  ideas  of  goodness  are  of  an  almost 
ethereal  vagueness.  In  a  fit  of  spleen  Fate  has  debarred 
them  from  those  social  conditions  which  adjust  men's  bar 
barous  intellectual  tendencies  into  harmony  with  gentle 
ness  and  sympathy.  The  saving  grace  of  urbanity  is  a 
mystery  to  them — they  lack  a  perception  of  relations. 
Life  is  at  best  a  great  green  woodland,  in  which  sweet 
medicinal  herbs  grow  side  by  side  with  fetid  poisonous 
plants,  and  through  which  all  the  winds  of  heaven  sing  or 
thunder  ;  and  if  men  pluck  only  nightshade,  and  hear 
none  but  the  loud,  roaring  winds,  the  fault  lies  not  in 


32  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LAX. 

Nature  herself,  but  in  a  perverted  exercise  of  sensibilities 
bestowed  for  a  keener,  nicer  discrimination  of  things. 
And  this  perversion  is  a  misfortune,  hardly  a  crime. 

I  can  but  think  that  humanity  is  its  own  excuse  for 
being  ;  a  skilled  hand  has  painted  us  in  light  and  shadow 
— a  hand  whose  work  is  "good/' .transcending  criticism  ; 
and  the  shadows  no  less  than  the  light  are  needed  to  make 
up  the  picture.  We  may  at  least  learn  the  sweet  lesson  of 
pity  by  studying  the  lowly  uses  to  which  humanity  lends 
itself.  And  we  may  utilize  men  as  outer  consciences  : 
for  the  hatefulness  of  a  vicious  life  in  another  may  become 
a  dominant  reason  for  rightly  living  our  own.  It  is  but 
'fair  to  remember  that  absolute  purity  lies  only  in  infinite 
knowledge  ;  glimpses  of  this  purity,  of  this  knowledge, 
broaden  and  become  more  frequent  as  time  goes  on  ; 
they  are  the  light  by  which  men  lay  noble  deeds  for  the 
upbuilding  of  the  world's  rising  structure  of  good — the 
converting  light  which  shines  even  where  black  ignorance 
and  crime  seem  to  make  such  psychical  architecture  im 
possible.  The  Pugsleys  of  this  world  are  never  without 
certain  elements  of  magnanimity  and  generous  human 
feeling  ;  there  is  hope  for  them  individually  as  for  man 
kind  collectively,  whose  beginning  was  a  handful  of  dust 
and  a  divine  inspiration.  If  in  the  illest-shaped  human 
figure  there  is  a  beauty  and  grace  of  God's  own  making, 
of  what  infinite  capability  must  be  the  human  soul,  whose 
garment  and  obstruction  the  body  is  ? 

But  the  Pugsleys  are  not  introspective — they  are  boister 
ously  contented  with  themselves ;  and  the  future  to  them 
looks  promising  enough  if  it  appears  no  worse  than  the 
present.  Bobbing  and  reeling  ubiquitously  in  unison 
with  their  incalculable  wagon,  the  interesting  family 
labored  onward.  The  air  grew  hotter  ;  the  mud  became 
like  tar  as  the  sun  rose  higher.  Yet  the  heat  was  all  in 
the  valley,  for  on  some  of  the  higher  levels  there  had 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


33 


been  a  slight  snowfall  the  night  before,  and  it  had  not 
yet  melted  from  the  sage-brush  and  manzanita  bushes 
that  dappled  the  foothills  like  flocks  of  sheep.  Here  were 
gray  chasms,  scarred  by  the  blows  of  a  thousand  tor 
rents  ;  there  a  red  and  yellow  mesa  lay  straight  and 
shining  as  a  brazen  ruler  against  the  sunny  heights  be 
yond  it.  Anon  a  foaming  torrent  plunged  over  its  ver 
tical  precipice,  half  hid  in  spray,  flung  heavenward  like 
the  armsV)f  despairing,  suicidal  women.  But  the  travel 
lers  saw  nothing  of  sky  or  mountain,  of  tree  or  water 
fall.  They  had  become  scenery-hardened  long  ago,  and 
had  learned  to  tolerate  nature  with  grim,  passive  endur 
ance  as  an  unavoidable  adjunct  of  their  material  life. 
The  agonies  of  slow  travel  have  often  been  described  at, 
but  never  touched  in,  their  actuality.  The  indifference 
to  everything  but  personal  discomfort  which  gradually 
settles  down  upon  the  sprightliest  spirit  becomes  in  time 
tragic  ;  and  a  stage  of  misery  has  been  reached  by  civil 
ized  beings  even  in  this  age  of  smooth  surfaces,  when 
the  all-sufficiency  of  well-curled  bangs — hitherto  an  un 
questioned  article  of  religious  belief — becomes  a  subject 
of  painful  doubt  in  the  feminine  mind. 

Mr.  Pugsley  reflected  on  the  quarrel  just  ended.  De 
cidedly  he  was  feeling  less  malevolent  than  before.  To 
be  sure,  he  had  been  worsted,  and  Maria  had  come  out  on 
top  ;  but  that  was  a  matter  of  course.  Maria  had  been 
coming  out  on  top  ever  since  he  could  remember,  and  he 
would  have  been  surprised  and  disgusted  at  any  other 
result.  The  main  point  gained  was  that  Mrs.  Pugley  had 
been  made  to  understand  her  helplessness  and  depend 
ence.  It  had  been  shown  to  his  satisfaction  that  she  was 
unconditionally  his  personal  property  ;  that  if  he  chose 
to  poke  her  with  a  stick,  he  would  do  it ;  and  she  might 
infer,  as  an  incentive  to  good  conduct  in  future,  that,  if 
he  chose  to  pitch  her  out  of  the  wagon,  he,  would  do  that 

3 


34 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  hAVILAH. 


also — providing  that  Maria  was  nowhere  in  the  neighbor 
hood  to  interfere.  Mr.  Pugsley 's  unconditional  right  to 
treat  his  wife  as  he  chose  was  thus  modified  by  very 
express  conditions,  which 'he  dared  by  no  means  ignore  ; 
but  the  fact  remained  that  she  was  there,  to  be  made 
miserable  whenever  his  own  misery  became  unbearable 
in  its  loneliness  and  required  company. 

His  surviving  irritation  led  him  into  broad  generaliza 
tions. 

"  Wimmin  is  all  sprouts  o'  the  devil,"  he  remarked, 
flinging  the  words  over  his  shoulder  into  the  wagon,  and 
wishing  that  they  were  pebbles  that  could  wound  and 
bruise. 

But  he  received  no  answer.  Maud  Eliza  did  not  even 
titter,  and  Mrs.  Pugsley  did  not  even  groan. 

"  The  man  't  gits  married  's  warmin'  hot  water  fer  his- 
self,"  he  continued  more  assertively.  He  paused  long 
enough  to  give  each  of  the  horses  a  cut  with  his  whip, 
and  then,  receiving  no  answer,  went  on  : 

"  What  a  man  wants  to  git  married  fer  's  more  'n  I  can 
see.  They  ain't  no  comfort  in  it — they  ain't  no  sense  in 
it ;  but  everybody  does  it,  jes'  like  they  had  to.  Seems 
like  marriage  follers  single  blessedness  the  way  death  fol- 
lers  life — it's  a  piece  o'  nater  'n  nat'ral  misforshun.  Eh  ! 
it's  hard  swimmin'  with  a  mill-stun  round  the  neck,  'n' 
hardlivin'  with  a  passel  o'  wimmin  draggin'  a  man  down, 
down — clean  down  to  the  very  bottom  o'  the  bottomless. 
No  wonder  I  git  tired  o'  it ;  didn't  the  Lord  Hisself  wunst 
git  weary  'n'  want  rest  ?  Leeches  'n'  blood-suckers  ain't 
nothin'  Alongside  o'  wimmin  ;  buzzards  'n'  coyotes  ain't  a 
patchin'  to  'em.  If  they's  anything  't  '11  rob  a  man  o'  tal 
ent  o'  his  nat'ral  gifts,  'n'  turn  his  genyus  into  fat  fer  their 
gummed  bones,  it's — "  here  Mr.  Pugsley  sawed  the  air  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  his  figure — "it's — by  hokey  ! — its 
wimmin  !  " 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  35 

Still  no  answer.  Mr.  Pugsley  looked  over  his  shoulder 
to  discover  the  cause  of  this  unusual  silence.  Maud  Eliza 
was  staring  stupidly  at  the  wagon-track  behind  her  and 
thrumming  with  the  fingers  of  one  hand  against  the  back 
of  the  other.  Mrs.  Pugsley  lay  quite  still,  with  closed 
eyes,  looking  very  pale  and  creased  and  damp.  Maria 
was  drawing  her  hair  through  her  fingers  in  default  of  a 
comb,  preparatory  to  doing  it  up.  The  singular  dispo 
sition  of  the  women  to  keep  quiet  encouraged  Mr.  Pugsley 
to  enlarge  upon  his  grievances.  He  was  a  man  of  ex 
tremes,  always  supremely  blessed  or  supremely  miser 
able,  never  even  crudely  philosophical,  as  are  many  of 
his  class.  To  him  it  was  a  comfort  to  din  his  troubles 
into  other  ears,  no  matter  whether  he  was  listened  to  im 
patiently  or  not  at  all.  He  had  no  understanding  of  the 
exegesis  of  causes — no  conception  of  the  truth  that  an 
exposition  of  the  wrongs  dealt  to  the  individual  is  a 
statement,  clear  as  in  figures,  of  the  wrongs  dealt  by  the 
individual. 

"Fat?"  cried  he,  turning  again  to  the  horses,  but 
speaking  loud  enough  for  the  women  to  hear.  "Fat,  did 
I  say  ?  Fat,  'nough  fer  a  hull  pen  o'  pigs,  which  Jud  pay 
fer  their  keep,  as  is  more  'n  wimmin  does.  How  in  the 
name  o'  Hanner  they  manage  to  keep  so  fat,  I  can't 
see — " 

"Nor  I,  nuther,"  interrupted  Maria,  grimly.  "  Spe 
cially  ma."  And  then  Maud  Eliza  tittered  fit  to  kill  herself 
and  recovered  with  a  series  of  liquid  gurgles  like  the 
sound  of  water  poured  from  a  small-mouthed  bottle. 

"What  I  want,"  continued  Mr.  Pugsley,  with  the  air  of 
one  who  has  studied  a  subject  impartially  from  different 
points  of  view,  "is  wimmin  folks  't's  got  common-sense. 
This  'ere  thing  o'  havin'  a  pack  o'  fools  forever  follern' 
after  ye,  grows  mighty  wearn'.  What  I  want—" 

"  Bah  !  we  hear  ducks  !  "  cried  Maria  in  derision. 


3  6  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVlLAH. 

"  What  I  want — "  recommenced  Ephraim  in  a  louder 
voice,  twisting  his  head  and  pointing  his  words  with  a 
didactic  finger.  But  Maria  interrupted  him  again. 

11  What  ye  want's  a  watch-pocket  under  yer  eye  !  "  She 
cried.  And  Maud  Eliza  threw  herself  back  and  snorted. 

"  Well,  don't  quar'l"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley,  formally,  from 
her  blankets.  "  The  world's  wide  'nough  'thout  that. 
'N'  I've  said  it  to  ye  many  a  time  afore." 

"Oh,  we  ain't  quar'lin',  ma.  I'm  jes'  'preciatin'  dad's 
conversation.  It's  so  interestin'. " 

"  I'd  rather  have  the  perrymids  o'  Egypt  into  the  wagin 
'n'  three  sech  great  hulkin'  chunks  o'  flesh,'1  proceeded 
Mr.  Pugsley,  regarding  Maria's  irony  as  a  recognition  of 
his  right  to  a  larger  freedom  of  speech.  "  No  wonder 
we  don't  git  ahead — no  wonder  the  hosses  is  givin'  out,  'n' 
I'm  so  thin  ye  could  see  daylight  through  me  if  the  sun 
was  in  the  right  place. " 

"  Nobody's  denyin'  ye're  oncommon  thin,"  put  in  Maria, 
and  Maud  Eliza  snorted  again,  as  in  duty  bound. 

"What  the  Bible  means  by  encouragin'  o'  matrimony's 
more  'n'  I  can  see,"  cried  the  father,  warming  up  to  the 
subject.  "  Git  up,  there,  Bonypart,  if  ye  want  to  keep  yer 
skin  hull." 

And  he  showered  on  his  dejected  steeds  the  blows 
which  he  felt  belonged  by  right  to  the  exasperating  women 
ofjiis  own  family. 

The  black  adobe  valley  stretched  out  on  all  sides  as 
waste  and  barren  as  the  primordial  firmament  of  heaven. 
If  there  had  only  been  a  bit  of  grass  somewhere  in  sight 
on  that  great  level,  Mr.  Pugsley  would  not  have  felt  so 
aggrieved,  though  he  had  no  practical  use  for  grass  at 
present  and  certainly  experienced  no  ecstatic  emotion  at 
the  sight  of  vernal,  growing  things.  There  was  a  little 
grass  on  the  southern  slopes  of  the  foothills,  but  Mr.  Pugs 
ley  did  not  want  it  there  ;  he  wanted  it  where  it  had  not 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  37 

chosen  to  grow.  He  wanted  everything  as  it  had  not  chosen 
to  be.  He  wished  that  power  had  been  given  him  to 
order  the  grass  and  other  things  about ;  there  would  soon 
be  an  improvement  in  the  workings  of  this  worldly  ma 
chine.  Taverns  ad  infinitum  would  approach  at  the  word 
of  command  and  follow  that  battered  emigrant  wagon 
in  blissful,  orderly  obedience  ;  and  what  a  paradise  that 
would  make  of  this  hideous,  black,  sticky  valley  ! 

Our  stomachs  are  the  source  of  most  our  prayers. 
11  Lord,  send  us  quickly  to  the  next  tavern  ! "  prayed  Mr. 
Pugsley  under  his  breath. 

A  sudden  jolt  of  the  wagon  brought  a  prolonged  groan 
from  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

Ephraim  chuckled  hoarsely. 

t(  It's  good  fer  ye,  old  gal  ; "  he  chuckled  in  malicious 
enjoyment.  "  It'll  stir  ye  up  V  make  ye  healthy.  Ye 
loll  aroun'  too  much.  That's  the  matter  o'  ye — ye  loll 
aroun'  too  much  !  " 

"  Oh,  Ephraim  !  "  articulated  Mrs.  Pugsley  in  weak 
protest. 

Ephraim  expectorated  grimly  on  the  horses'  flanks.  A 
wife  may  be  a  comfort  to  her  husband  when  she  is  a  dis 
comfort  to  herself. 

"  Ye  was  allus  hard  on  me,"  said  the  moist  woman, 
feeling  herself  an  object  of  reprobation.  "Ye  never  was 
proud  o'  me — nobody  ever  was  sens  I  was  a  Swipes.  'N' 
I  never  do  nothin' — never.  There's  room  'nough  in  the 
world  fer  all,"  she  added,  irrelevantly. 

"If  ye'd  been  made  to  work  fer  yer  livin'  from  the  very 
first  start  'stid  o'  settin'  up  fer  a  fine  lady  in  pore  health 
V  doin'  nothin'  but  spreadin'  yerself  out  on  the  flat  o'  yer 
back  from  mornin'  till  night,  ye  wouldn't  a-got  in  sech  a 
helpless  state.  Ye'd  a  flaxed  aroun'  'n'  kep'  healthy — 
that's  what's  kep'  me  a-goin'  all  these  years." 

"  Dear,  dear,"  cut  in  Maria,  ironically.      "  Did  any  one 


38  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

ever  see  sech  a  sweet,  purty  man  ?  Did  any  one  ever  see 
anything  slicker  'n'  a  peeled  onion  afore  ?" 

Mr.  Pugsley  disregarded  the  sarcasm.  His  conscious 
inability  to  cope  with  his  daughter  kept  his  fault-finding 
confined  to  his  wife. 

"  I've  been  too  good  to  ye,"  he  declared.  "  I've  been 
too  good  to  the  hull  .kit  'n'  possy  o'  ye.  I've  harbored  ye 
'n'  clothed  ye  'n'  fed  ye.  I've  had  ye  follerin'  aroun'  after 
me — " 

"Oh,  the  dear  critter!"  interrupted  Maria  with  a  burst 
of  unnatural  affection.  "  Ma,  ma,  d'ye  reckon  it  'ud  lem- 
me  kiss  it  ?  " 

"Mebbe't  would  if  ye'd  coax  it,"  suggested  Maud  Eliza, 
from  the  intricacies  of  one  of  her  giggling  fits. 

"Oh,  jes'  wunst,  pa  !  "  cried  Maria,  clasping  her  hands 
in  dramatic  pleading,  "jes',  jes'  wunst,  'n'  then — lemme 
die  !  " 

"Shet  up  !"  cried  Ephraim,  sternly.  "  Ain't  a  man  got 
a  right  to  finish  what  he  starts  to  say  in  his  own  fam'ly  ?  " 

"Let  yer  dad  speak,  gals,"  put  in  Mrs.  Pugsley,  oracu 
larly,  from  her  blankets.  "Go  on,  Ephraim  dear,  we're 
listenin." 

"Maud  Eliza,"  cried  Maria,  in  a  severe  tone,  "  I'm 
'  shamed  o'  ye — ye  call  the  blush  o'  shame  all  over  my 
face  'n'  halfway  down  my  back.  Stop  that  air  gigglin' 
this  instant  'n'  cross  yer  hands  'n  listen'  respectful  to  yer 
lovin'  father." 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVlLAtf. 


39 


CHAPTER  V. 

A  MAN'S  faults  in  the  eyes  of  his  family  are  likely  to  be 
come  enlarged  like  nervous  tissue  under  the  microscope, 
their  increased  size  making  them  unrecognizable  as  a  part 
of  the  marital  organism.  To-day  Mr.  Pugsley  was  more 
than  ever  sure  that  Maria  exaggerated  his  shortcomings — a 
freak  of  judgment  altogether  wrong  in  a  girl  having  faults 
of  her  own  which  he  might  exaggerate,  too,  if  he  were 
unfair  enough  to  take  an  uncharitable  advantage.  Con 
sidering  everything,  he  could  fairly  congratulate  himself 
on  being  a  very  good  husband  and  father.  He  had  always 
provided  for  his  family.  There  was  still  a  dish  of  cold 
beans  wrapped  up  in  a  gunnysack  in  a  corner  of  the 
wagon,  and,  if  he  remembered  correctly — and  he  was 
not  likely  to  forget  such  particulars — there  was  a  small 
wedge  of  johnny-cake  left  over  from  breakfast.  A  man 
who  provides  for  his  family  like  that  in  hard  times  may 
reasonably  be  considered  a  good  fellow.  He  wondered, 
somewhat  anxiously  whether  that  greedy  Maud  Eliza  had 
gobbled  the  johnny-cake  in  one  of  the  intervals  of  her  gig 
gling.  It  would  be  just  like  her — it  was  in  her  part  of  the 
wagon.  And,  if  she  had,  the  whole -outfit  of  them  might 
go  hungry  and  be  hanged,  for  he  proposed  to  enter  into 
negotiations  with  the  bar-keeper  at  Havilah  at  about  noon 
to-day,  and  six  bits  was  little  enough  for  the  purpose. 

In  the- midst  of  these  meditations  Mrs.  Pugsley  raised 
herself  on  one  elbow  and  gazed  about  her  with  the  blank- 
ness  of  inanition.  She  looked  very  moist  and  slippery 
among  her  blankets— like  the  neglected  daughter  of  an 
ancient  river,  fated  to  grow  old  but  never  die. 


40  IN  THE   I/ ALLEY  OF  I1AVILAH. 

"It's  rainin'  up  there  on  the  foot  hills,"  she  said,  in  a 
helpless,  purposeless  way,  "'N'  they  wa'n't  a  cloud  no- 
here  a  little  while  ago.  I  thought  it  was  goin'  to  clear  off 
'n'  gimme  a  chance  to  enjoy  life  again.  But  that's  jes'  the 
way ;  even  the  weather's  agin'  me  'n'  has  a  spite  at  me. 

It  must  a-snowed  up  there  las'  night,  too,  'n'  the  rocks 
is  all  damp,  'n'  the  sky  is  damp  'n'  everything's  damp. 
'n'  I've  got  a  pain  in  my  lef  side  that's  twistin  the  life  out 
o'  me." 

Her  enumeration  of  all  the  wet  places  in  the  landscape 
was  about  as  interesting  to  Ephraim  as  a  scientific  classi 
fication  of  animals  would  have  been.  He  gave  his  horses 
an  extra  cut  with  his  whip  and^kept  silent. 

"  I  hope  the  rain  won't  come  down  'ere,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Pugslsy,  with  the  look  of  one  who  has  been  identified  with 
humidity  for  a  term  of  years  and  would  now  like  a  change. 
"I'm  glad  o'  the  sunshine.  It  feels  good,  fallin'  onto 
me  'n'  soakin'  into  my  bones.  I  wish't  the  wagon  didn't 
have  no  top,  so  't  I  could  git  more  o'  the  sun." 

Maria  laughed,  showing  her  firm  white  teeth. 

"  I  don't  see's  takin'the  waggin-top  'ud  make  much  dif- 
'rence, "  she  said.  * '  The  sun  seems  to  get  through  it  'thout 
much  trouble." 

Mrs.  Pugsley  pushed  back  her  straggling  locks  and 
waved  a  sticky  hand  in  deprecation. 

"That's  jes'  the  way  with  ye,  Mariar,"  she  sighed  with 
the  dreary  monotony  of  purposelessness.  "That's  jes' 
the  way  ye  allus  was.  Ye  ain't  got  no  feelin' — ye'd  's  lief 
set  in  shadder's  sunshine.  Ye're  all  Pugsley  in  that — not  a 
grain  o'  Swipes.  The  Swipeses  was  all  fond  o'  the  sun — 
they  had  southern  blood  into  'em.  Why,  Dad  Swipes  'ud 
set  aroun'  the  door  o'  the  saloon  from  mornin'  till  night 
doin'  nothin'  but  enjoyin'  his  pipe  in  the  sunshine.  Oh, 
Lord,  the  side  o'  me  '11  bust  off  yit,  I  know  't  will ! " 

"I  wish 't  I  had  some  o'  that  Liver  Exterminator 't  I 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  ^ 

seen  advertised  in  big  red  letters,"  said  Maria  with  solici 
tude.  "  I  know  it  ud  do  ye  good.  It  said  it  ud  cure  any 
thing." 

Mrs.  Pugsley  settled  back  among  her  blankets  like  one 
who  watches  his  own  grave  dug  and  is  determined  not  to 
mind. 

"  No — no/'  she  said,  in  the  deposed  empress  tone  which 
she  assumed  at  ktimes,  twisting  her  clammy  fingers  to 
gether  and  rolling  her  head  from  side  to  side.  ''They 
couldn't  cure  everything — they's  -things  as  wa'n't  made  to 
be  cured,  'n'  I'm  one  o'  'em.  Death's  been  campin*  on 
my  trail  for  years,  'n'  now  here  '  tis.  'Tain't  no  use  bein' 
a  Swipes ;  't  ain't  no  use  runnin'  away  :  the  faster  I  run 
the  sooner  I'll  tumble  into  the  hole  't  's  been  dug  fer  me. 
No — no.  They  ain't  nojcure  fer  the  likes  o'  me  in  this  'ere 
world.  What's  the  use  o'  a  kittle  when  it's  all  cracked  'n' 
busted  every  which  way  ?  Not  't  I'd  compare  a  Swipes  to 
a  cracked  kittle,"  she  added  with  a  sudden  assumption 
of  transitory  dignity.  "  It's  only  the  crackin, — the  pain. 
Now  ye  see  what  'tis  to  be  well  brought  up  'n'  have  to  come 
down.  Mariar — Mariar,"  she  wailed,  abruptly  relinquish 
ing  her  dignity  and  becoming  low-spirited  again.  "  I'm  a 
pore  critter  as  the  world  treads  on.  Nobody  keers  fer 
me  !  " 

"  Oh,  come,  come,  ma,"  said  Maria,  cheerfully.  "Don't 
go  to  takin'  on,  don't  go  to  gittin'  down  in  the  mouth  'n' 
feelin'  blue.  Things  '11  come  out  all  right  by'm'by." 

"Fer  you,  yes  ;  fer  me,  no,"  quavered  Mrs.  Pugsley  in 
antithesis  and  tears.  I  wish't  the  green  grass  was  growin' 
over  me,  I  do — I  do  !  " 

"  So  d'  I  !  "  put  in  Ephraim,  as  devoutly  as  if  responding 
in  the  litany. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  wept  in  ostentatious  silence  for  several 
moments,  her  tears  falling  upon  her  general  moistness  with 
an  effect  similar  to  a  spring  shower  on  the  sea. 


42  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAff. 

"What's  the  use  o'  livin'  when  dyin'  's  easier?  "  she  be 
gan  presently,  conscious  of  what  seemed  to  her  the  dawn 
ing  of  a  new  idea.  "'Tain't  nothin' to  die — it's  livin'  't 
uses  a  critter  up.  I  wish  I  was  dead  'n'  gone  V  nothin' 
left  o'  me  but  my  bones  a-rottin'  in  the  dark.  I  could 
have  some  comfort  then,  the  dead  don't  know  their  own 
fergittin'." 

"  Oh,  no  danger  o'  fergittin'jy0#,"  broke  in  Ephraim  with 
intense  feeling. 

"  La,  ma,  they's  lots  V  lots  o'  things  to  live  fer  yit. 
Jes'  think,  now  !  S'posin'  dad  was  to  up  'n'  strike  a  gold 
mine — wouldn't  ye  be  glad  ye  wasn't  dead,  then  ?  'N '  they 
do  it  here  in  Havilah  wunst  in  a  while,  even  now,  I've 
heard  say.  'N'  then — la,  what  wouldn't  we  do  ?  Wouldn'  t 
we  paint  the  earth  red  ?  'N  '  here  ye're  talkin'  's  if  dyin' 
was  the  glory  o'  livin'.  Oh,  ma  ! '' 

Ephraim  turned  impatiently. 

"When  I  strike  a  gold  mine,"  he  declared,  "the  first 
thing  I'll  see  to  '11  be  a  divorce,  ye  can  bet  yer  pile  on 
that  I  wish't  the  devil  wanted  ye  'n'  'ud  take  ye,  the  hull 
passel  o'  ye  !  "  he  added,  firing  the  words  over  his  shoul 
der  as  if  they  were  bomb-shells. 

"  Looks  like  he's  got  us  a'ready,"  remarked  Maria  in 
her  serenest  voice.  "  Ye're  the  head  o'  the  fam'ly,  ain't 
ye  ? " 

"  Oh,  Mariar,  Mariar !  "  cried  Maud  Eliza  with  a  snort 
and  a  strangle.  "  What  a  critter  ye  be — what  a  critter  ye 
be  !  Ye're  a  caution  to  snakes — ye're  enough  to  kill 
corns !  *' 

Here  Mrs.  Pugsley  dried  her  eyes  with  a  showy  exertion 
of  her  will,  and  turning  to  her  husband  asked  in  the  voice 
of  a  confirmed  invalid  who  wishes  to  appear  particularly 
patient : 

1  *  Ain't  we  'most  there,  Ephraim,  dear  ?  " 

"  'Most  where  ?  "  growled  Mr.  Pugsley. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  43 

"  'Most  there — where  we're  goin' — I  fergit  the  name  o' 
the  place.  Ye  know  my  mem'ry  was  allus  pore.  All  the 
Swipeses  had  pore  mem'ries,  fust  'n'  last." 

"  I  hope  ye're  most  where  ye're  goin'  after  ye're  dead  ! " 
snarled  Ephraim. 

"  There,  now— let  up  on  that,jyou/  "  cried  Maria,  warn- 
ingly.  And  Ephraim  fell  to  examining  the  mountains. 

"  It  don't  matter  what  he  says/'  quavered  the  moist  wo 
man,  determined  to  be  resigned.  "  It's  all  been  said  fif 
ty  times  afore  'n'  I'm  used  to  it.  It  don't  matter — it's  on 
ly  me.  Let  'im  go  on — he  won't  have  me  long  to  buse  'n' 
knock  aroun/  Oh,  Lord,"  she  groaned,  with  sudden  appeal 
to  interrogation,  "why  was  I  borned  to  be  knocked 'n' 
battered  aroun1  in  this  'ere  ridic'lous  way  ?  Why  ain't  I 
dead  'n'  gone  like  the  rest  o'  the  decent  folks  ?  This  'ere 
wide  world  ain't  no  place  for  the  likes  o'  me. " 

" There,  there,  ma,"  said  Maria,  as  if  soothing  a  fretful 
child. 

The  occupants  of  the  wagon  were  silent  for  some  mo 
ments  having  exhausted  their  ordinary  resources  of  con 
versation.  The  light  on  the  foothills  grew  and  filled  its 
little  spot  of  sky  with  soft  gray  shadows  ;  a  distant  moun 
tain  backed  one  nearer  and  similar  in  shape,  looking  like 
the  penumbra  of  the  latter  through  the  mist ;  elsewhere 
the  sunshine  fell  deep  and  peaceful.  The  wind  had  risen, 
and  they  could  occasionally  catch  the  music  of  the  pines  ; 
now  and  again  they  were  near  enough  to  the  foothills  to 
feel  the  chill  fall  of  shadows  from  rock  and  peak ;  near 
enough  to  the  river,  too,  to  hear  its  muffled  sound — a 
sibilant  murmur  through  wide  spaces  of  air,  like  the  dis 
tant  beating  of  many  wings. 

"I  hope  there'll  be  plenty  o*  men  there,  to  Havilah — 
young  men,  I  mean,"  remarked  Maud  Eliza  with  con 
siderable  seriousness.  ' '  O'  course  there'll  be  plenty  o'  old 
'uns.  Seems  to  me  like  we  ain't  never  been  nowheres  't 


44  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

the  men  wa'n't  all  a-gittn'  purty  well  on  in  years  V  kind 
o'  ruinous. J; 

•'I've  allus  found  'nough  o'  both  kinds,"  said  Maria. 
"  I  never  noticed  no  signs  o'  the  breed  dyin'  out." 

ft  Yes,  the  young  7uns  was  allus  on  the  canter  after  you," 
declared  Maud  Eliza,  with  bitterness,  "but  I  never  got 
into  a  man's  eye  yit  't  wa'n't  old  'nough  to  be  my  daddy. 
Ye  allus  had  plenty  to  pick'n'  choose  from,  'n'l  don't  why 
ye  don't  freeze  onto  one  o'  em  'n'  give  me  a  chance. 
It's  hoggish — that's  what  it  is,  'n'  if  ye  was  a  lady  ye'd 
a-stopped  it  long  ago." 

This  was  a  subject  on  which  Maud  Eliza  felt  deeply, 
and  which  had  early  confirmed  in  her  a  republican  belief 
in  the  inj  ustice  of  the  advantages  of  primogeniture.  When 
she  was  at  liberty  to  discourse  at  length  on  her  wrongs 
she  usually  employed  the  historical  method  of  treating 
the  subject,  beginning  with  an  early  admirer  who  had 
been  drawn  from  her  to  her  sister,  and  pursuing  a  chron 
ological  sequence  of  similar  instances  down  to  the  pres- 
sent  day — now  and  then  transcending  the  limits  of  time 
and  circumstance  and  bearing  away  into  a  wild  prophetic 
future,  in  which  she  constrained  history  to  repeat  itself 
through  cycles  of  disappointment  and  spinsterhood. 
However,  it  was  evident  that  Maud  Eliza  was  not  hope 
less  of  a  shaping  of  events  which  should  ultimately  evolve 
a  matrimonial  victim,  for  even  in  her  most  reproachful 
moods  she  had  been  known  to  titter  in  delighted  anticipa 
tion.  Maria  always  experienced  something  like  disgust 
at  these  demonstrations.  She  never  could  understand 
what  a  woman  wanted  of  a  husband.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  men  were  at  best  a  poor  makeshift  of  the  Creator  at 
a  moment  when  there  was  a  scarcity  of  good  feminine 
material. 

"  Well,  there  !  "  she  said,  when  Maud  Eliza  had  finished 
her  tirade  ;  ' '  ye' ve  fired  yer  wad,  'n'  can  keep  still  a 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  45 

while,  I  hope.  I'd  like  to  see  the  feller  I'd  let  come  lally- 
gaggin'  aroun'  me. " 

"Ah,  Lord  A'mighty,"  cried  Maud  Eliza  with  irony. 
"Ain't  she  greens  ?  Don't  she  think  she's  some?"  And 
she  went  off  into  a  fit  of  grasping  her  nose  and  strang 
ling. 

"When  Mariar  gets  married,"  Ephraim  condescended 
to  say  with  a  touch  of  fatherly  pride,  "she'll  make  it  snow 
fer  somexo'  'em,  ye  can  bet  yer  life  o'  that.  She's  the 
Devil's  Own,  Mariar  is  !  " 

"  It's  nat'ral  for  a  gal  to  want  to  gft  a  man/'  put  in  Mrs. 
Pugsley  as  if  touching  upon  a  subject  which  demanded 
nothing  less  than  her  own  large  previous  knowledge  be 
fore  it  could  be  pursued  to  advantage.  "  I  'member  how 
'twas  with  me  when  I  was  a  gal." 

"Them  orter  have  'em  't  wants  'em,"  said  Maria. 

"'N'  Maud  Eliza  does  want  'em,  o'  course,  'n'  quite 
right,"  declared  Mrs.  Pugsley,  regarding  her  younger 
daughter  with  complaisance.  "  She's  all  Swipes,  Maud 
Eliza  is,  in  that.  There  never  was  a  Swipes 't  didn't  marry 
young ;  it's  allus  been  the  remarks  o'  people  't  the  hull 
breed  o'  Swipeses  went  off  like  hot  cakes.  It's  their  nater 
—it's  in  the  blood." 

"  Well,  I'd  like  to  know  what  a  woman's  fer  if  'tain't  to 
git  married  ?  "  challenged  Maud  Eliza,  conscious  of  the 
advantage  of  defending  a  conventional  idea. 

"  Nothin'  't  I  know  on,"  answered  Maria,  grimly.  "To 
git  married  'n'  be  knocked  aroun'  instfd  o'  a  sand-bag  when 
their  husban's  is  drunk — that's  what  wimmin's  made  fer." 

"  'N'  I  intend  to  git  married  the  very  fust  chance,"  con 
tinued  Maud  Eliza.  " 'N'  I'd  rather  have  a  young  man 
'n  a  old  7un  any  day,  though  I'd  ruther  have  an  old  'un 
'n  none  at  all." 

Mrs.  Pugsley  brightened  like  a  mist  in  sudden  sun- 
ghine. 


4  6  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"  D'ye  hear  that,  Ephraim  ?  "  she  cried  with  joy.  "  She's 
Swipes  all  over  !  " 

Maud  Eliza  tittered  her  acknowledgments. 

"Though,  for  the  matter  o' that,"  pursued  the  moist 
woman  with  an  air  of  rightful  ownership,  "  I  allus  knowed 
it  from  the  very  fust  start  't  she  was  'er  mother's  own 
child  'n'  took  after  the  family.  Maud  Eliza/'  she  added 
in  solemn  adjuration,  "  ye've  started  right;  a  gal  orter 
marry, — she  orter  try  to  make  'er  own  market  'cause  they's 
more  satisfaction  in  it  'n  what  they  is  in  dependin'  on 
her  parents.  I'm  yer  own  mother,  'n'  I  tell  ye  fer  yer 
own  good  't  ye  orter  marry;  'n'  I've  had  experience." 

Maria  smiled.  It  was  one  of  her  mother's  inconsisten 
cies  to  insist  on  the  wisdom  of  her  marriage  even  while 
she  deplored  the  consequences  of  it. 

Ephraim  was  silent,  but  not  from  lack  of  interest  in  the 
subject.  Indeed,  speculations  on  this  very  theme  at  odd 
times  had  revealed  to  him  latent  powers  of  imagination 
which  he  had  never  suspected;  and  he  had  often  dram 
atized  himself  present  at  the  first  meeting  of  one  of  his 
daughters  with  a  good-natured  son-in-law  elect,  looking 
on  as  benignantly  as  Deity  might  have  done  when  Eve 
was  presented  to  Adam.  He  had  also  allowed  his  im 
agination  to  picture  himself  wandering  blissfully  against 
an  infinitely  varied  background  of  saloon  sign-boards, 
the  recipient  of  regularly-paid  sums  of  money  sufficient 
for  a  man's  necessary  expenses.  He  believed  Maria  might 
have  been  married  long  ago  if  she  had  wished.  Her 
objections  were  inexplicable. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  was  just  opening  her  lips  for  another 
ebullition  of  maternal  instruction  when  there  was  a  pre 
monitory  steady  sinking  of  the  front  wheels  of  the  wagon, 
a  soft  settling  together  of  thick  mud  around  the  hubs, 
then  motionless  silence.  Maria  at  the  rear  of  the  wagon 
could  hear  the  tired  horses  breathe  as  they  laid  thern^ 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  47 

selves  forward  to  the  ground  in  their  attempt  to  go  on. 
Mr.  Pugsley  cut  at  the  poor  beasts  furiously  with  his 
whip,  roaring  and  cursing  like  one  possessed.  But  all  to 
no  purpose.  The  wagon  would  not  move.  Presently 
the  horses,  dead  tired  with  their  hard  morning's  labor, 
and  realizing  the  uselessness  of  further  exertion,  settled 
back  loosely  in  their  traces  and  submitted  to  his  vicious 
lashings  without  the  quivering  of  a  muscle. 

He  hacl  owned  the  animals  long  enough  to  know  what 
that  meant.  They  were  worse  than  Maria  when  they 
had  made  up  their  minds  as  to  what  they  wouldn't  do. 
With  ludicrous  suddenness  he  lapsed  from  imprecation  to 
invitation  in  the  desperate  hope  that  a  change  of  tone 
might  induce  a  change  of  intention  in  the  worn-out  beasts. 

"  Good  ponies  !  "  he  said  in  a  voice  of  smothered  pas 
sion  which  he  tried  to  make  tender  with  pleading. 

But  the  horses  did  not  budge. 

"  Git  up  !"  he  proceeded  in  a  tone  of  gentle  induce 
ment. 

Still  they  did  not  move. 

"  Get  up  !  "  he  repeated,  wheedlingly. 

This  mild  request  being  also  disregarded,  he  howled  at 
the  top  of  his  voice  : 

"  Git  up,  there,  Bonyparte,  d— n  ye,  or  I'll  splinter  the 
dumburned  ribs  o'  ye  !  " 

But  the  wagon  was  stuck  fast.  Mr.  Pugsley  sank  back 
with  a  hollow  groan.  Travellers  were  few  and  far  be 
tween  at  that  season,  and  no  help  could  be  expected  from 
other  sources.  And  the  tavern  at  Havilah — 

The  much-tried  man  turned  purple.  There  is  a  limit 
even  to  extreme  forbearance  ;  and  we  know  that  the  gods 
themselves  were  capable  of  anger. 

*  With  a  sudden  movement,  implying  that  chaos  had 
come  again,  he  flung  the  reins  upon  the  horses'  backs 
and  leaped  out  into  the  mud.  Next,  he  deliberately 


48  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

kicked  the  nearest  horse  in  the  ribs,  grunting  with  a 
sense  of  ease  as  he  did  so ;  then  he  walked  around  the 
wagon  kicking  each  wheel  impartially  in  turn  and  fin 
ished  up  in  an  orderly  manner  on  the  ribs  of  the  other 
horse.  After  that,  he  seized  a  muddy  wheel  in  both 
hands  and  stood  shaking  it  in  breathless,  impotent  rage. 
Then  catching  sight  of  Mrs.  Pugsley's  frightened  face 
peering  out  through  a  rent  in  the  canvas,  he  made  a 
blind,  murderous  dash  at  her  and  commenced  clambering 
into  the  wagon  directly  at  her  side. 

"  I'll  larn  ye  !  "  he  yelled,  clutching  and  clawing  to 
get  in,  "  I'll  larn  ye,  ye  jade  !  " 

Mrs.  -Pugsley  had  never  before  seen  her  husband  so 
murderously  angry.  She  drew  back  screaming,  and 
calling  in  a  terrified  voice  for  Maria. 

But  before  Ephraim's  perceptions  were  able  to  over 
come  the  momentum  of  his  emotions  he  felt  a  shock  at 
both  ends  of  his  spine  and  an  instant  later  was  conscious 
of  an  identity  like  his  own  seated  in  the  mud  by  the  road 
side  with  Maria's  strong  hands  in  the  region  of  his  collar 
and  Maria's  face  close  to  his  like  an  avenging  fury.  In 
another  instant  he  felt  himself  seized  and  lifted  and  then 
abandoned  to  the  iron  grasp  of  gravity  ;  which  process, 
interspersed  regularly  with  a  series  of  dull  splashes  in  the 
mud,  was  continued  all  day  long,  it  seemed  to  him.  And 
when  it  finally  ceased  he  discovered  that  he  was  seated 
in  the  road,  under  a  sky  full  of  uncertain  suns,  his  hat 
beside  him,  and  Maud  Eliza  tittering  at  him  from  behind 
a  rag  of  the  wagon  cover.  He  glanced  around  him  help 
lessly,  then  by  degrees  he  commenced  to  weep,  until  in 
the  course  of  two  or  three  minutes  Pius  ^Eneas  himself 
might  have  envied  that  flow  of  tears.  Oh,  what  a  place 
this  world  was  !  What  had  it  been  created  for,  anyway? 
And  he  a  man,  too,  to  be  treated  like  this.  The  thought 
formed  a  stage  in  the  approach  of  unconsciousness.  Pres- 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  rfLAff.  4  g 

ently  he  ceased  weeping  and  experienced  a  gradual 
sense  of  fading  out  into  nothing.  Then  his  mind  became 
a  blank. 

As  for  Mrs.  Pugsley,  the  sight  of  her  husband  in  that 
condition  seemed  only  less  terrible  than  the  sight  of  him 
clambering  into  the  wagon  with  murder  in  his  eyes,  and 
she  collected  herself  for  a  prolonged  outburst  of  wailing 
and  lachrymation  ;  but  a  sense  of  inadequate  powers 
constrained  her,  and  she  sank  back  with  a  decrescendo  of 
moist  groans,  and  lay  quite  still,  in  wet,  tragic  passivity. 
Maria,  calm  in  the  persuasion  that  she  had  done  her 
duty,  climbed  back  into  the  wagon  and  sat  there  quietly, 
listening  to  the  river  which  flowed  close  at  hand.  The 
novel  motionlessness  of  the  wagon  was  not  unpleasant 
to  her  ;  it  gave  her  a  chance  to  rest  her  back  against  the 
wagon-box  without  danger  of  dislocation.  And  then, 
she  could  hear  the  river  so  much  plainer ;  and  she  had 
always  liked  the  music  of  water  lapping  its  margin  softly 
and  mingling  with  the  hoarser  sound  of  the  middle 
current. 

She  bent  over  and  smoothed  back  her  mother's  dis 
ordered,  unhealthy  locks,  and  tucked  the  tumbled  blank 
ets  into  more  comfortable  order.  Words  of  endearment 
.  would  have  sounded  strange  on  her  lips  ;  had  they  come 
to  her  she  would  have  left  them  tin  uttered  from  a  sense  of 
restraint  and  shame.  Her  education,  or  lack  of  educa 
tion,  had  unfitted  her  for  the  expression  of  any  slighter 
emotions  than  indignation  and  wrath.  Her  feelings 
were  sealed  up  within  her  ;  she  herself  was  not  dis 
tinctly  conscious  of  any  of  them  except  anger.  There 
had  been  no  influence  about  her  from  her  babyhood  up 
to  develop  her  affections  ;  everything  had  tended  to  blunt 
her  sensibilities,  to  make  her  coarse  and  unwomanly. 
Her  material  wants  were  supplied  when  she  had  three 

4 


50  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH* 

meals  a  day ;  her  spiritual  life  was  complete  when  her 
father's  supply  of  grog  was  such  as  to  insure  her  mother 
against  ill-treatment.  There  were  times,  indeed,  when 
remote  influences  touched  and  stirred  her,  when  faint 
voices  reached  her  inward  ear  brokenly,  as  if  they  could 
tell  her  glad  tidings,  were  she  not  so  far  away.  Some 
times  when  she  sat  by  running  water  until  the  sound 
filled  her  brain  and  benumbed  all  power  of  thought 
beyond  the  slow  consciousness  of  freedom  and  rhythm, 
she  had  come  to  herself  with  a  start,  and  her  past  seemed 
for  a  time  like  the  memory  of  an  insane  hour  ;  and  some 
times  when  she  watched  the  stars — the  good  thoughts  of 
angels  before  they  became  angels — a  momentary  shiver 
ing  desire  came  over  her  to  be  like  them,  immutable  and 
high  and  pure.  But  conceptions  of  a  better  life  did  not 
insist  themselves  upon  her,  did  not  trouble  her  except  as 
vague  suggestions,  formless  against  gloom.  Her  history 
was  as  simple  as  that  of  a  crystal :  she  existed,  and 
grew  from  the  outside. 

And  yet  the  woman's  nature  in  her,  working  as  silently 
and  resistlessly  as  the  circulation  of  her  blood,  feeling  the 
need  of  something  to  care  for  that  its  claims  to  existence 
might  not  be  ignored,  had  gradually  centered  all  its 
dumb,  instinctive  craving  on  the  ill-used,  complaining 
mother,  whose  weakness  was  a  constant  appeal  to  the 
daughter's  generosity  and  strength.  Maria's  regard  for 
her  mother  was  not  love  nor  tenderness,  nor  even  affec 
tion,  as  we  understand  those  terms.  It  was  the  armed 
outgoing  of  a  strong  nature  for  the  protection  of  the  weak, 
a  sympathetic  resentment  for  injury  and  injustice  ;  it  was 
an  instinct  rather  than  a  reason,  an  emotion  of  the  body 
rather  than  of  the  soul.  But  it  was  her  closest  approach 
to  womanhood  thus  far,  and  there  had  been  times  as  long 
ago  as  she  could  remember  when  a  sense  of  misery  crept 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  5 1 

over  her  at  the  thought  of  hearing  no  more  the  mother's 
insistent  wailing  and  complaining.  It  was  the  only 
demand  that  had  ever  been  made  upon  her  spiritual 
energies,  and  to  lose  it  was  like  losing  the  power  of  loco 
motion. 

The  true  sources  of  character  are  a  thousand  insignifi 
cant  rivulets  among  the  unexplored  hills  and  valleys  of 
experience.  Maria's  life,  with  its  impetuous  shallows, 
its  dangerous  pools  and  muddy  currents  was  by  no  means 
a  picturesque  or  inviting  stream  in  the  human  landscape  ; 
but  there  was  good,  wholesome  sunshine  upon  it,  and 
here  and  there  a  thread  of  crystal  clearness  forced  its  way 
through  the  turbid  waters,  never  wholly  losing  itself  in 
the  darker  currents  around  it.  She  was  a  creature  of 
large  possibilities.  Nature  had  done  much  for  her  to 
begin  with,  but  Maria  had  never  learned  to  fill  up  with 
Art  the  places  left  vacant  by  Nature.  Life  had  made  no 
definite  impression  upon  her,  but  the  future  would  make 
or  mar  her.  Her  virtues  were  in  reality  monstrosities, 
deformed  in  obvious  ways,  like  the  fabled  race  of  men  who 
could  hide  under  their  own  ears,  or  at  best,  ridiculous  in 
some  less  important  feature,  like  the  deities  in  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics  who  have  no  hair.  As  for  love,  it  had 
never  touched  her,  except  to  move  her  to  laughter  or 
scorn.  There  was  a  "fierceness  of  maidenhood"  which 
built  a  barrier  of  reserve  and  fear  between  her  and  those 
who  would  approach  too  closely.  Her  convictions  as  to 
what  she  wanted  and  did  not  want  were  fixed  and  in 
superable  ;  and  she  was  perfectly  sure  she  did  not  want 
a  husband.  One  husband  in  the  Pugsley  family  was 
enough,  and  her  mother  was  welcome  to'him. 

Maria  lived  as  the  trees  do  among  the  rocks  ;  she  had 
grown  quietly  into  the  distorted  shape  into  which  circum 
stances  crowded  her,  yet  was  ignorant  of  her  deformity, 


52  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

never  having  known  the  rectitude  of  symmetry.  Her 
most  vivid  recollections  outside  the  repeated  family 
''rows/'  in  which  she  played  so  prominent  a  part,  were 
of  several  never-to-be-forgotten  occasions  when  she  had 
been  obliged  to  go  longer  without  eating  than  was  con 
ducive  to  the  comfort  of  her  insides. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  53 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  HELLO,  there,  old  'tin  !  What's  up  ?  Got  stuck  'n'  can't 
pull  loose  ?  " 

Mr.  P-tigsley's  mental  blankness  had  changed  to  a  haunt 
ing  half-consciousness  that  he  was  dead,  and  that  instead 
of  being  buried  decently,  he  had  been  left  by  his  family 
— even  in  death  his  domestic  troubles  were  with  him — to  a 
gradual  decay  in  the  foreground  of  a  moist,  unlovely  land 
scape.  He  was  not  sure  of  distinguishing  rightly  the 
words  which  broke  in  upon  this  condition  of  nightmare, 
but  the  hearty  human  voice  touched  him  with  a  thrill  of 
generous  warmth  and  seemed  to  stay  for  a  moment  the 
process  of  dissolution.  He  opened  his  eyes  and  gazed 
around  him  like  a  partially  resurrected  body  on  Judgment 
Day  ;  he  looked  down  at  his  legs,  at  his  hands,  doubting 
that  they  belonged  to  him.  Had  he  awakened  in  the  land 
of  spirits  ?  And  was  this  his  spiritual  body  or  the  same 
old  mass  of  earthly  flesh,  blood,  and  thirstiness  from  which 
he  had  hoped  he  was  parted  forever  ?  And  the  smiling, 
red-headed  stranger  yonder,  astride  a  strong  gray  horse 
and  leading  its  mate  of  exactly  the  same  size  and  color — 
what  vision,  what  dream  of  a  vision  was  that?  For  of 
course  it  could  not  be  real.  Either  it  was  a  phantom  con 
jured  up  by  an  overwrought  sense  of  frustration  and  mis 
ery,  or  a  celestial  horseman  out  for  an  airing  in  the  fields 
of  Paradise. 

Yes,  he  must  be  dead,  and  this  was  a  messenger  sent 
to  bear  him  to  the  realms  of  bliss  and  perpetually  satisfied 
thirst. 

"Howlong'vel  been  dead?     'N'  who  the  devil  air 


54  /AT  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

ye  ?  "  He  articulated  with  as  much  difficulty  as  if  using 
his  voice  for  the  first  time  in  years  ;  then  he  held  up  his 
muddy  hands  and  shook  his  head  at  them  in  mournful 
gravity.  "They  ain't  mine,  I  can  take  my  dyin'  oath  o' 
that.  My  ban's  had  more  feelin'  in 'em  'n'  what  them  air 
wooden  y  things  's  got.  They've  gone  'n'  made  a  mistake 
—they've  give  me  the  wrong  ban's." 

The  stranger  laughed,  comprehending  Mr.  Pugsley's 
psychic  entanglement.  He  had  a  pleasant  laugh  alto 
gether. 

"Ye  can't  seem  to  take  me  all  in,  ole  feller,"  he  said, 
in  the  informal  tone  of  one  who  is  assured  of  being  in  the 
presence  of  friends.  He  pulled  at  the  rope  by  which  he 
led  the  second  horse,  and  the  big  animal  splashed  obedi 
ently  forward  a  step  or  two.  "  Lord,  I'm  reel  'nough, 
nobody  ain't  reeler  'n'  I  be.  I  ain't  no  ghost  'n'  ain't  got 
no  intentions  o'  bein',  'n'  don't  ye  fergit  it !  " 

Maud  Eliza,  who  had  been  tittering  all  day  for  her  own 
amusement,  now  thrust  her  head  from  behind  the  wagon 
cover  to  titter  for  the  amusement  of  the  stranger,  and  was 
paid  for  her  trouble  by  a  facetious  nod  and  wink. 

"Ye  jes'  bet  I'm  reel,"  he  declared  with  smiling  de 
cision. 

Mr.  Pugsley  rose  with  difficulty  to  his  feet.  He  looked 
like  a  vertical  mud-puddle  miraculously  endowed  with 
powers  of  locomotion. 

"Ye're  a  rather  hard-lookin'  pilgrim,"  remarked  the 
stranger  with  another  laugh.  It  seemed  an  easy,  habitual 
thing  for  him  to  laugh.  His  life  overflowed  with  such 
unreasoning  happiness  as  does  running  water,  a  flash  in. 
the  sun.  W'y,  ye  look  like  ye'd  been  a-settin'  down  in 
the  mud — darn  my  fool  soul  if  ye  don't  !  " 

At  this  graceful  bon  mot  Maud  Eliza  exploded  with  a 
hollow  sound,  and  retired  precipitately  behind  the  wagon- 
cover  to  collect  the  fragments. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  55 

There  was  evidently  no  intentional  sarcasm  in  the  stran 
ger's  personalities,  and  Mr.  Pugsley  saw  none.  His  mind 
had  commenced  to  act  again,  but  not  critically,  as  the 
stranger  seemed  to  expect.  A  sudden  hope  rilled  him. 
There  was  still  something  to  live  for  ;  there  was  still 
whiskey  in  the  world — perhaps  in  this  traveller's  pocket. 
Mr.  Pugsley  seemed  to  grow  broader  and  taller  in  accom 
modation  for  this  growing  faith. 

"  Whoever  ye  be,"  he  cried,  cordially.  "  I'm  roarin' 
glad  to  see  ye,  'n'  d'ye  happen  to  have  a  drop  o'  nose-paint 
anywheres  about  yer  clo'se  ?  " 

"  Ye  may  lay  yer  las'  dollar  I  have,"  was  the  equally 
cordial  response.  "  Never  go  out  o'  doors  'thout  it. 
Taint  safe  in  this  country.  Snake-bites,  ye  know  ! " 
Here  the  stranger  produced  a  comfortable-looking  bottle 
and  handed  it  to  Mr.  Pugsley  with  a  knowing  wink. 

Ephraim  returned  the  wink  fraternally  with  his  bleared 
left  eye,  while  he  raised  the  bottle  to  his  lips  with  a  long, 
delicious,  anticipatory  sigh. 

"  Here's  lookin'  at  ye,  stranger/' he  said.  And  then 
.there  was  an  interval  of  silent  ecstasy. 

"  I  wish't  I  could  run  onto  a  flowin'  spring  o'  that  stuff," 
he  remarked,  after  a  long  pull,  and  a  strong  pull  holding  the 
bottle  at  arm's  length  and  regarding  it  with  affectionate 
admiration.  "I'd  build  a  homestid  'n'  settle  down  to  a 
comf  table  ole  age — that's  what  I'd  do  !" 

He  took  another  blissful  draught  and  then  gave  a  moist, 
convivial  wink  at  the  landscape  in  a  general  way. 

Maud  Eliza  had  got  herself  together  in  tolerable  shape 
again  and  had  thrown  back  a  part  of  the  canvas  so  that 
the  interior  of  the  wagon  was  exposed  to  the  stranger's 
view.  Maria  was  sitting  cross-legged  and  composed  like 
a  Turk,  while  Mrs.  Pugsley  lay,  apparently  unconscious 
of  everything,  even  of  the  sun's  shining  into  her  half-open 
mouth.  The  young  man  turned  toward  the  women  with 


5  6  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH, 

a  knowing  look,  at  the  same  time  nodding  sidewise  at 
Ephraim  as  if  appreciating  the  old  'un's  enjoyment  and 
calling  on  them  to  participate  with  the  due  heartiness  of 
consanguinity.  Especially  his  eye  rested  on  Maria,  who 
did  not  seem  particularly  pleased. 

At  Ephraim's  mention  of  a  homestead  beside  a  flowing 
spring  of  whiskey,  Mrs.  Pugsley  stirred  feebly  and  raised 
herself  on  her  elbow,  shaking  her  head  drearily. 
v  "  Ye  wouldn't  git  no  comfort  out  o'  sech  a  homestid  if 
ye  had  it,"  she  croaked,  clutching  at  the  side  of  the  wagon 
as  if  to  save  herself  from  gliding  down  a  slippery  incline. 
"  They'd  be  dozens  o'  squatters  claimin'  they  was  there 
afore  ye  was  borned.  They  ain't  no  comfort  in  this  'eer 
world,  nohow  ;  'n'  they  ain't  no  use  tryin'.  Everything's 
wrong  'n'  crooked.  '*' 

"  There,  dad,  that's  'nough,"  cried  Maria,  somewhat 
sharply,  as  Mr.  Pugsley  removed  the  bottle  from  his  lips 
once  more  and  stood  clasping  it  protectingly  in  both 
hands.  "Now  give  back  the  bottle.  Three  swigs  like 
them  's  'nough  for  anybody.  Ye  don't  want  more  'n,  jes' 
what'll  make  ye  feel  good — yell  be  howlin'  drunk  if  ye 
keep  on.  He  allus  howls  when  he  gits  too  full,"  she 
added  in  explanation  to  the  stranger.  She  made  not  the 
slightest  effort  to  cloak  her  father's  failings.  Indeed,  she 
had  become  so  accustomed  to  them,  and  had  seen  so  little 
else  in  the  twenty  years  of  her  life,  that  she  had  learned 
to  regard  them  as  one  phase  of  the  natural  order  of  things 
and  hardly  as  failings  at  all.  In  the  social  sense,  she  was 
as  primitive,  as  rudimental  as  protoplasm  itself.  For  the 
weaknesses  of  the  masculine  character  she  had  a  crude 
limited  forbearance  which  she  indulged,  inasmuch  as  it 
strained  her  powers  of  admonition  less  than  a  spirit  of 
intolerance,  and  implied  various  superior  traits  of  her 
own. 

Mr.   Pugsley  handed  back  the  bottle  compliantly.     It 


IN  THE  VALLEP  OF  HAVILAH.  57 

was  wonderful  to  observe  the  effect  of  a  little  warmth 
on  his  inside.  His  face  beamed  with  satisfaction.  His 
bleared  left  eye  winked  indiscriminately  at  the  river,  the 
mountains  and  the  sky,  as  if  including  them  in  a  con 
vivial  fraternity  with  himself;  he  dilated  and  overflowed 
with  good  feeling  toward  the  stranger,  his  own  family 
and  all  the  world.  Especially  did  his  heart  swell  with 
pride  as  his  glance  fell  on  Maria,  who  had  just  evinced  so 
filial  ancTintelligent  an  interest  in  his  welfare. 

"She's  a  good 'n,"  he  said  to  the  stranger,  spreading 
his  feet  wide  apart  in  the  mud  and  jerking  his  head  to 
ward  Maria.  "  She's  a  d — n  good  'un,  /tell  ye  !  Look  at 
'er,  stranger,  look  at  that  air  gal — my  oldes''  gal.  Look 
aj  'er  eyes  'n'  nose  'n'  han's.  'N '  look  at  them  cheeks  ! 
D'ye  ever  see  a  tomater  redder  or  healthier  ?  Or  a  piney 
redder  'n'  healthier  ?  Look  at  'er,  stranger,  'n'  answer  me 
that  !  " 

He  thrust  his  thumbs  into  the  pockets  of  his  vest,  drew 
himself  up  with  a  swaying  movement,  and  beamed  on 
Maria  with  more  than  fatherly  pride  and  affection.  The 
stranger  glanced  from  one  to  the  other  with  the  smiling 
curiosity  of  a  child. 

Maria  did  not  seem  to  resent  this  public  exposition  of 
her  charms. 

"  Dad  ain't  never  the  same  two  minutes  afore  'n'  after 
he's  had  a  swoller  o'  whiskey/'  she  said. 

Ephraim  with  difficulty  mounted  a  rounded  boulder  by 
the  wayside  and  stood  there  in  a  sort  of  flaccid  dignity, 
leering  like  a  satyr. 

"  'N' she  knows  what's  good  for 'er  old  daddy/' he 
proceeded  with  increasing  rapture.  "She  knows  when 
he's  got  'nough  on  the  inside  o'  him,  every  time.  'N' 
better  'n  he  knows  hisself,  too.  Lor  !  she  knows.  What 
don't  she  know  ?  "  He  slapped  his  muddy  overalls  with 
emphasis.  "Sech  jedgment  as  that  gal  has  !  Sech  jedg- 


58  2N  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

ment  'n'  percepshun  'n'  imaginashun  !  W'y  she's  a  prodi 
gal,  stranger — that's  what  she  is — a  downright  prodigal  ? " 
(The  enthusiastic  father  probably  meant  prodigy,  but  in  his 
present  state  of  exhilaration  the  reader  will  doubtless  allow 
him  a  latitude  of  expression  independent  of  dictionary  def 
initions)  "  'N'  as  fer  shape — man  alive,  jes'  look  at  that  air 
gal's  shape  !  Aint  she  a  strapper?  Ain't  she  a  bouncer? 
Ain't  she  a—" 

11  Oh,  shet  up,  dad !"  remonstrated  Maria.  "  Ye  allus  go 
too  fur.  Pick  up  yer  hat  V  put'  it  on,  'n  behave  yerself !  " 

Mr.  Pugsley  came  down  from  his  pedestal  and  obeyed 
all  these  commands — except  the  last — and  looked  more 
demoralized  than  ever  under  the  doubtful  protection  of  his 
muddy  brim. 

"Where  d'ye  git  the  raise  o'  that  hat?"  cried  the 
stranger  with  his  keen  enjoyment  of  everything.  "Oh, 
I  see.  Ye  was  settin*  down  there  makin'  it  Out  o'  the 
mud  when  I  come  up  'n'  disturbed  ye  !  " 

At  this  Maud  Eliza  collapsed,  clutching  wildly  at  her 
diaphragm. 

Had  it  been  possible  to  affix  some  standard  of  gradua 
tion  to  Mr.  Pugsley's  waistcoat,  like  the  scale  of  a  ther 
mometer,  to  measure  the  influence  of  alcohol  on  senti 
ment,  it  would  have  been  interesting  to  observe  how  the 
husband's  opinion  of  his  family  may  rise  in  direct  pro 
portion  to  his  internal  warmth. 

"A  finer  fam'ly,"  he  cried  with  effusion,  slapping  his 
thigh  with  a  lively  sense  of  domestic  felicity,  "can't  be 
found  nowheres,  ye  hear  me!  My  fam'ly — my  soul 
swells  up,  stranger,  whenever  I  think  o'  my  fam'ly. 
What  'ud  I  do  'thout  'em?  Nothin'.  Where  'd  I  be 
thout  'em  ?  Nowheres. "  He  waved  his  hand  in  a  con 
firmatory  manner,  slapped  his  thigh  again,  and  was  pre 
paring  to  proceed,  when  Maria  interrupted  him. 

"  Ye'd  git  a  idee  't  dad  was  a  big  man,  wouldn't  ye,  l 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  59 

stranger,  to  hear  'im  talk  ?  Well,  he  is  a  big  man.  I've 
often  asked  'im  if  it  don't  hurt  to  go  walkin'  the  earth 
permiscus  the  way  he  does,  knockhY  his  head  agin  the 
stars." 

But  Ephraim  took  no  notice  of  this  sarcasm.  He  pro 
ceeded  with  an  air  of  lofty,  uncorrupted  sentiment. 

"That  other  gal  in  the  middle  there,  that's  Maud 
Elizy,  my  younges',  V  the  liveliest,  chipperest,  laffinest 
critter  ye  ever  see — 's  happy  all  day  long  's  a  bird  on  the 
bough."  Maud  Eliza  testified  to  the  truthfulness  of  this 
rhapsody  by  a  volcanic  snort  from  the  rear  apartments  of 
her  nose.  "  It  'ud  warm  yer  heart  jes'  to  hear  'er  laff  'n' 
take  on.  She  cheers  many  a  mournful  hour  with  'er 
sweet,  chatterin'  ways." 

"  Maud  Elizy  's  Swipes  all  over,  every  grain  o'  'er,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Pugsley  with  a  touch  of  maternal  pride. 

"'N'  the  ole  gal  there,"  continued  Ephraim,  brought  to 
a  knowledge  of  his  wife's  presence  by  the  sound  of  her 
voice,  "That's  Mis'  Pugsley,  stranger,  the  pardner  o'  my 
joys  V  sorrers.  (I'm  Ephraim  P. — V  very  happy  to 
make  yer  acquaintance).  She's  a  good  'un,  too, — one  't 
ye  don't  see  the  like  of  every  day  o'  the  week,  lemme  tell 
ye ;  a  leetle  down  in  meat  jes'  now  'n'  not  over  lively, 
but  a  woman  as  is  wuth  'er  weight  in  gold,  'n'  is  the  pride 
o'  'er  husban's  heart."  Ephraim  wiped  away  a  tear  and 
Mrs.  Pugsley  groaned.  "Ye  do'  know  what  a  trouble 
'tis  to  me  't  she  ain't  fatter  'n  what  she  is.  I  feed  'er  high 
• — it  can't  be  that — she  has  things  in  the  way  o'  grub  't 
'ud  founder  a  hoss — " 

"  I  have  everything  I  need,  'ceptin'ham  sandwitchers," 
said  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

"  It's  in  'er  fam'ly,"  proceeded  Mr.  Pugsley,  with  affec 
tionate  feeling.  "They  was  all  thin — ye  couldn't  fatten 
'em  no  more  'n  ye  could  fatten  a  barb-wire  fence.  It 
wa'n't  in  'em.  Their  nater  was  agin  it.  They  was  fust 
rate  blood,  the  Swipses  was,  all  o'  'em,  but  they  wouldn't 


60  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

fatten   wuth    a  cent.     That   was   their   one   fault — the) 
wouldn't  fatten  wuth  a  d — n  cent." 

.Mrs.  Pugsley  looked  at  the  stranger  with  something  like 
a  rightful  claim  to  his  attention. 

"The  Swipeses  was  all  fust-rate  blood,"  she  affirmed, 
with  as  much  pride  as  if  she  were  the  descendant  of 
kings.  "They  wa'n't  no  better  nowheres.  They  was 
Southerners  ;  they  come  from  Arkansaw.  The  ole  breed  o' 
Swipeses  lived  there  year  in  'n'  year  out.  I've  heerd  dad 
say  with  my  own  ears  't  they  wa'n't  no  better  fam'ly  in 
the  state  'n  his'n,  nor  nowheres  else.  They  had  every 
thing  they  wanted  in  them  days.  That  was  'fore  dad 
come  to  Californy  'n'  got  misfortnit  'n'  busted  up  in  biz- 
ness." 

"It's  a  game  country  back  there,  I've  heerd,"  said  the 
stranger,  as  the  old  woman  paused  to  push  her  moist 
hair  out  of  her  eyes. 

"I  ain't  'shamed  o'  bein'  a  Swipes,"  she  continued, 
speaking  in  a  tone  of  formal  dignity  that  made  the 
stranger  want  to  laugh.  "Everybody  in  Stanislaus 
knowed  Dad  Swipes.  He  was  the  fust  man  to  Swipes' 
Bar.  He  had  a  saloon  there,  'n'  he  knowed  how  to  run 
things.  I  was  allus  genteel  in  the  matter  o7  flesh.  So 
was  dad.  So  was  marm.  So  was  all  the  Swipeses  fust  'n' 
last — I've  heerd  dad  say  so.  I  ain't  allus  lived  like  this 
'ere,'"'  she  added,  sighing.  Then  she  settled  back  with 
the  deprecation  of  a  sensitive  nature  which  has  been 
forced  by  adversity  to  expand  in  an  uncongenial  medium. 

"Speak  to  'er,  stranger,"  urged  Mr.  Pugsley,  who  had 
listened  to  these  observations  with  emotion.  "  It's  a 
thing  ye'll  be  glad  to  'member  till  yer  dyin'  day — the 
Swipeses  wa'n't  no  slouches,  I  can  tell  ye  that ;  'n'  they 
ain't  'nother  sech  a  woman  's  my  Melissy  under  the 
shinhY  sun."  And  he  wiped  his  eye  on  a  muddy  coat- 
sleeve,  without  perceptible  effect  on  his  dubious  com 
plexion. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  6 1 


CHAPTER   VII. 

s- 

THUS  adjured,  the  stranger  approached  the  moist 
woman  with  hardly  more  awkwardness  than  a  civilized 
man  would  have  manifested  at  a  similar  demand  on  his 
social  powers.  Mrs.  Pugsley  was  certainly  a  formidable 
person  for  a  light-hearted,  fun-loving  young  man  to 
address  at  close  quarters.  But  Maria's  eyes  were  upon 
him,  and  a  knowledge  of  that  fact  filled  him  with  a  desire 
to  be  grave  and  respectful — a  state  of  mind  which  was 
a  new  sensation  to  him.  He  instinctively  perceived  that 
Mrs.  Pugsley  would  construe  a  look  of  sympathetic  sor 
row  as  a  compliment  to  her  talent  for  wretchedness,  so 
he  lengthened  his  face,  as  if  viewing  a  prospect  of  unin 
terrupted  woe,  though  even  then  his  features  had  an  un 
deniable  upward  tendency  ;  then,  to  use  his  own  expres 
sion,  he  "waded  in." 

"I  hope  ye  feel  purty  well,  ma'am,"  he  said;  but 
observing  that  her  appearance  did  not  justify  such  a 
hope,  and  believing  that  she  would  resent  the  expression 
of  it,  he  added:  "  Leastways,  purty  well  fer  a  lady  in 
yer  present  state  o'  health.  I'm  sure  ye  look  very  bad, 
ma'am.  'N'  I  hope  ye  like  the  weather — which  mus' 
be  tryin'  to  a  lady  o'  yer  dellycut  constitution."  He 
was  afraid  even  now  of  having  spoken  too  cheerfully, 
and  therefore  changed  the  subject  abruptly.  "'N'  my 
name  's  Bling,  ma'am — Billy  Bling — 'n'  I'm  a  miner  o' 
Havilah.  I  hope  ye  feel  ruther  better,  ma'am — least 
ways  not  much  worse  ?  " 


62  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"  Don't  ask  me  how  I  feel,  young  man  !"  cried  the 
moist  woman,  tragically.  "If  ye  knowed  half  what  I 
suffer,  it  'ud  keep  ye  wake  o'  nights  !  " 

"Pore  ole  ma!"  said  Maria,  half  wistfully.  "She 
allus  talks  like  she  feels 's  if  she  'd  been  picked  up  some'r's 
by  accident." 

Billy  secretly  thought  she  looked  so,  too  ;  but  he  did 
not  venture  to  say  it 

"I'm  sure,  ma'am — "  he  began. 

"It's  nothin'  but  sorrer,  sorrer,  sorrer,"  went  on  Mrs. 
Pugsley.  "Nothin'  but  sorrer;  fer  every  joy  they's  a 
thousan'  sorrers.  I'm  sure  I  allus  try  to  be  joyful  'n' 
chipper  'n'  put  my  best  foot  foremost — nobody  more  so — 
'n'  even  my  own  fam'ly  's  deceived  'n'  goes  a-wonderin' 
how  I  keep  up  the  way  I  do.  They  don't  see  ;  they  don't 
symp'thize.  They  never  heerd  how  the  moon  's  dark  on 
t'other  side.  Oh,  my  side — oh,  my  liver!  I  wonder  if  I 
can  ever  fergive  God  A'mighty  fer  lettin'  me  suffer  in  this 
'ere  way.  /ain't  done  nothin'  to  'im.  /'ve  allus  let  'im 
alone.  Then  what  makes  'im  git  a  holt  o'  me  like  this  ? 
I  wish  't  I'd  a'  died  when  I  could  a'  had  Swipes  writ  onto 
my  tombstun — I  do,  I  do  !  " 

"  I'm  sure,  ma'am — "  Billy  commenced  again. 

"But  it  can't  last  long,"  breathed  Mrs.  Pugsley,  finding 
herself  the  centre  of  some  attention,  and  resolving  to 
make  the  most  of  her  opportunities.  "I'll  go  over  some 
day,  I  know  I  will.  I've  been  dyin'  fer  years,  'n'  now 
here  't  is.  Oh,  I  hope  it  '11  be  soon  !  I  wonder  what  ails 
me  't  I  can't  die  ?  " 

"Oh,  la,  ma,"  cried  Maria,  encouragingly.  "Don't 
talk  like  that.  Ye're  wuth  twenty  dead  'uns  this  minute. 
Ye  won't  be  ready  to  turn  up  yer  toes  this  many  a  long 
day  yit." 

Mrs.  Pugsley  said  nothing  in  answer,  but  receded  into 
a  shower  of  drizzling  tears,  catching  her  breath  and 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  63 

groaning.     After  a  few  minutes,  however,  she  emerged 
long  enough  to  cry  in  solemn  prophecy  : 

"I  know  they  ain't  no  ham-sandwitchers  in  Havilah ; 
I  know  it — I  feel  it  in  my  bones  ! " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  bet  they  is,"  replied  Maria;  and  then, 
with  a  smile  which  caused  the  stranger  to  flush  clear  up 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair  and  feel  as  if  he  were  walking  on 
sunbeams,  "  Mr.  Bling  '11  hitch  them  dandy  horses  o* 
his'n  onto  our  waggin',  I'm  sure,  'n'  haul  us  safe  into 
Havilah,  like  the  gentleman  I  know  he  is  !  " 

"I'm  sure  ye're  very  kind,  Miss,"  stammered  Billy, 
redder  than  ever. 

"Mr.  Bling 's  a  great  admirer  o'  ladies,  I  know,"  sim 
pered  Maud  Eliza,  wondering  what  kind  of  an  impres 
sion  she  had  made  on  the  young  man's  sensibilities. 

Mr.  Pugsley  evinced  no  interest  in  a  speedy  arrival  at 
Havilah.  He  was  very  comfortable.  He  had  mounted 
his  pedestal  again,- and  seemed  wrapped  in  the  seclusion 
of  great  thoughts. 

"  I  was  'jes  goin'  to  offer,"  said  Billy,  recovering  from 
his  fit  of  blushing,  and  regarding  Maria  sidewise  with 
shy,  boyish  admiration.  "I'm  on  the  way  to  Havilah, 
myself.  Lucky,  ain't  it?  " 

"Awful  lucky,"  assented  Maria,  cordially. 
Billy  got  down  from  the  big  gray  and  commenced  un 
hitching  Mr.  Pugsley's  jaded  steeds,  preparatory  to  put 
ting  his  own  in  the  traces.  Ephraim  did  not  offer  to 
assist.  He  was  too  busy  with  the  sensation  of  indefinite 
joy  pervading  his  whole  system  to  think  of  irrelevant 
details. 

c<Ye  might  think  these  'ere  horses  was  mine,"  Billy 
said,  busying  himself  about  the  harness,  "but  they  ain't. 
They're  Jim  Hulse's— he  lives  up  there  in  the  foothills 
beyond  the  camp.  He  's  queer,  Jim  is — some  folks  says 
he  done  a  murder  some'r's  back  in  the  East,  'n'  can't  git 


64  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

over  it — but  he  ain't  a  bad  sort  o'  feller,  if  ye  take  'im 
right.  Ye  want  to  let  'im  alone,  though,  when  he's  got  a 
streak  on — he  looks  's  if  he'd  slap  ye  flyin'  if  ye  spoke  to 
'im  then  ; — one  o'  that  sort,  ye  know."  He  looked  up  at 
Maria  to  see  whether  she  was  listening,  and  seeing  that 
she  was,  flushed  again  and  looked  confused  and  happy. 

"  Oh,  one  o'  the  streaky  sort,"  said  she,  caring  nothing 
about  Jim  Hulse,  but  willing  to  use  a  little  friendly  decep 
tion  inasmuch  as  Billy  evidently  wanted  her  to  be  in 
terested. 

"Yes,  he's  streaky,  Jim  is,"  continued  Billy,  deter 
mined  to  talk  in  spite  of  his  embarrassment.  "  He  reads 
books — he's  got  a  hull  lot  o'  'em  in  his  cabin — ye  orter 
see  'em  all  in  a  row  there  over  his  table.  They's  more 
'n  I  ever  seen  all  told  afore." 

"  I  don't  go  much  on  books  myself,"  declared  Maria. 
"  Eddicated  folks  is  allus  fools." 

"  Lor'!"  laughed  Billy. 

"  Anyways,  they've  allus  got  their  noses  in  the  air," 
corrected  Maria. 

"  Well,  nose  or  no  nose,  Hulse  is  good  friends  with  me, 
'n' he  couldn't  come  for. the  beasts  hisself  to-day,  so  I 
offered,  bein'  idle,  jes'  to  'commodate.  He  keeps  'em 
most  o'  the  time  up  'ere  to  Van  Winkie's  in  the  foothills  ; 
I  rode  out  with  Van  Winkie  in  the  waggin'  las'  night. 
Though  I'm  sure  I  d'  know  what  Hulse  wants  o'  the 
horses.  He  ain't  got  no  use'fer  'em.  It's  a  freak  o'  his — 
he's  full  o'  freaks." 

"  Oh,"  said  Maria,  indifferently.  She  was  not  equal  to 
the  task  of  dissimulating  further,  even  for  the  sake  of 
friendship. 

Billy  went  on  with  his  work,  still  smiling.  It  would 
have  given  him  pleasure  to  help  the  Pugsleys — he  was 
always  assisting  strangers  with  friendly  offices,  just  for 
{he  pleasure  of  doing  a  good  turn — even  if  Maria  had  not 


IN"  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  65 

been  one  of  their  number ;  but  her  presence  certainly  gave 
value  to  the  mild  satisfaction  which  is  the  usual  recom 
pense  of  disinterestedness.  Her  voice  had  a  ring  that  he 
had  never  before  heard  in  the  voice  of  any  woman  ;  it 
certified  a  personality  which  was  a  compound,  of  good- 
fellowship  and  independence  ;  he  would  like  to  keep  on 
doing  things  forever  that  would  cause  her  to  praise  him. 
Innocence,  we  may  believe,  is  a  dream  of  philosophic 
souls  ;  but  there  was  as  much  of  that  spotless  quality  in 
Billy's  admiration  for  Maria  as  it  is  possible  to  conceive  of 
in  the  carnal  mind  of  man.  It  occupied  all  his  energies 
just  to  think  how  complete  she  was,  thus  leaving  no  chance 
for  baser  thoughts.  He  wished  he  had  seen  more  of 
women  and  better  knew  what  pleased  them  ;  he  had  an 
idea  they  liked  lordly  manners  and  graceful  off-hand  atten 
tions,  such  as  characterized  the  ephemeral  flashy  gamblers 
of  the  camp.  He  was  by  no  means  sure  that  Maria  would 
be  pleased  by  such  manners,  but  he  could  not  help  wish 
ing  that  he  knew  enough  about  them  to  be  able  to  assume 
them  at  will.  She  was  an  event  in  his  life — a  suggestion 
of  increasing  enjoyment  through  long  years  to  come. 

Though  he  kept  on  smiling,  it  somehow  happened  that 
when  he  spoke  to  Maria  he  was  inclined  to  maintain  a 
respectful  seriousness  which  was  quite  new  to  him.  It 
was  not  because  Maria  was  a  serious  girl — on  the  con 
trary.  But  in  her  presence  he  felt  as  if  he  would  like  to 
laugh  at  such  times  and  in  such  ways  as  would  please 
her.  He  could  not  make  up  his  mind  positively  whether 
she  would  like  laughing  or  anything  else  ;  he  could 
hardly  imagine  her  likes  and  dislikes,  even  in  outline. 
And  indeed  Maria  would  have  puzzled  a  riper  student  of 
human  nature  than  Billy  Bling.  She  was  as  ambiguous 
as  an  unfinished  sentence  ;  she  suggested  a  multitude  of 
meanings  and  confirmed  so  few  of  them. 


66  IN  THti  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER  VIII/ 

EPHRAIM'S  horses  were  presently  removed  and  tied  to 
the  rear  of  the  wagon,  where  Maud  Eliza  amused  herself 
by  flicking1  their  noses  with  her  apron  and  snickering. 
After  letting  out  several  straps  in  the  old  harness,  the  big 
grays  were  fastened  in  the  traces,  and  everything  was 
ready  to  start.  Then  Mr.  Pugsley  descended  serenely 
from  his  pedestal,  mounted  the  front  seat  beside  Billy, 
and  in  a  moment  the  wagon  was  under  way. 

"Now,  that's  suthin'like,"  declared  Maria,  approvingly. 

'Tin  glad  ye  like  it,  Miss,"  replied  Billy  with  a  pleased 
look. 

" Ain't  this  suthin'  like?"  asked  Maria,  turning  to  her 
mother. 

But  the  moist  woman  evidently  considered  that  such  an 
admission  would  be  derogatory  to  her  dignity  as  profes 
sional  mourner,  and  only  answered  with  a  groan.  Billy 
noted  the  kindly  tone  in  which  Maria  spoke  to  her  mother 
and  made  up  his  mind  that,  whatever  her  likes  and  dis 
likes  might  be,  any  little  attention  he  might  pay  to  the  old 
lady  would  not  be  unacceptable  to  the  young  one.  He 
was  at  a  loss  how  to  take  advantage  of  this  new  knowl 
edge — sympathy  seemed  to  make  the  old  lady  worse  and 
hopefulness  she  resented.  He  determined,  however,  to 
assist  her  out  of  the  wagon  when  they  reached  Havilah 
— Maria  would  be  sure  to  notice  an  attention  like  that. 
women  in  Havilah  usually  scrambled  out  of  wagons  as 
best  they  could,  but  the  laws  of  custom  were  not  inviol 
able.  He  contented  himself  with  -thinking  how  glad  he 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OP  HAVILAH.  67 

was  of  the  opportunity  to  do  something  for  Maria  and  her 
family.  If  it  were  not  for  him,  they  might  be  sitting  there 
in  the  wagon  yet,  longing  for  some  one  to  come  to  their 
assistance.  No  lover  who  sees  his  mistress  wearing  a  gift 
of  his  conspicuously  in  a  ball-room  could  feel  more  hope 
ful  than  did  Billy  at  the  assurance  that  Maria  accepted  his 
services  with  gratitude.  But  fear  is  always  the  parallel  of 
hope,  and  while  he  could  not  help  believing  Providence, 
who  had  kindly  seconded  matters  thus  far,  would,,  forshame 
of  inconsistency,  continue  propitious,  he  dreaded  the  im 
pression  he  might  be  making  on  this  strong-minded  young 
woman.  Well,  no  matter  ;  there  was  plenty  of  time. 
Meanwhile,  there  was  the  old  woman  to  experiment  on. 
She  was  what  Billy  called  a  "  sure  thing." 

"  How  pretty  the  sun  looks  on  the  river  !  "  said  Maria, 
after  a  long  pause. 

"  Don't  it,  though  !  "cried  Billy  with  delight.  His  long 
and  intimate  intercourse  with  nature  had  furnished  his 
mind  with  some  bold  comparisons,  and  he  did  not  feel 
afraid  to  express  them  to  Maria.  "  D'ye  know,  it  allus 
makes  me  think  't  the  sun  's  busted  'n'  tumbled  into  the 
water. " 

Maria  laughed. 

"  Lor,  what  a  idee  ?  "  she  said.  Then,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  ((  It  ain't  bad,  though.  Most  men  don  't  think  V 
sech  things." 

Billy  answered  her  with  a  grateful  look  which  she  did 
not  see.  He  thought  it  was  something  to  the  purpose 
that  she  noticed  a  favorable  difference  between  him  and 
other  men. 

"  I  used  to  think  a  heap  more  'bout  such  things  when 
I  was  a  kid,"  he  said.  "  I  can  'member  mother  used  to 
tell  suthin'  from  the  Bible  'bout  how  beautiful  upon  the 
mountains  are  the  feet  o'  him  that  brings  glad  tidin's  ;  'n' 
after  I  come  out  'ere  from  Ohio — that's  where  I  was  borned 


68  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

'n'  raised — it  come  to  me  all  of  a  heap  't  the  big  white  clouds 
was  like  that  on  the  mountains — like  Christ  come  to  make 
the  world  glad."  He  spoke  very  seriously,  even  while  his 
lips  were  still  smiling ;  but  all  at  once  his  tone  changed  as 
if  he  was  fearful  of  a  too  solemn  turn  in  the  conversation. 
"  They  ain't  no  'countin'  fer  what  '11  come  into  a  feller's 
head  at  odd  times — 'specially  when  ye're  a  kid.  Some 
times  I  'most  wish  't  I  was  a  baby  agin — it's  sech  fun  to 
grow  up  !  Dou'tjyou  P  " 

"  No,  thankee,"  returned  Maria  with  decision.  "  I've 
had  my  share  o'  growin'  up.  I'll  take  the  rest  o'  mine  in 
stayin'  big.  I'm  purty  well  contented  the  way  I  be." 

"  It's  a  fine  team,  that  air,"  remarked  Mr.  Pugsley,  who 
was  in  a  mood  to  praise  everything. 

"Jim  Hulse  wouldn't  keep  no  other  kind/'  was  the  an 
swer.  "  He  knows  a  good  piece  o'  hoss  flesh  when  he  sees 
it,  Jim  does." 

"Oh,  a  judge  o'  hoss  flesh,  eh?"  said  Mr.  Pugsley. 
"Well,  well  !  that's  good — I  like  a  man  't  knows  a  dandy 
from  a  scrub  ;  V  I've  allus  said  I  know  a  fine  wooman 
when  I  see  'er ;  she  sort  o'  fixes  'erself  in  my  eye  'n'  stays 
there.  Now,  that  Mariar  o'mine — "  Mr.  Pugsley  lowered 
his  voice  and  glanced  behind  him  furtively,  "  w'y,  that 
gal,  stranger,  that  gal  '11  make  some  man  sech  a  wife  's 
'ud  be  the  envy  o'  a  'Frisco  stockbroker,  she  will,  by 
hokey  !  I've  studied  'er  like  a  father,  'n'  I  know." 

Billy  looked  impressed,  not  amused,  as  he  would  have 
done  had  Ephraim  spoken  thus  of  Maud  Eliza. 

"She  zs  a  fine  woman, "  he  said  meditatively,  as  if  dwell 
ing  on  a  blissful  idea. 

"Be  ye  a  married  man  ?"  continued  Ephraim  with  un 
sophisticated  directness. 

"No." 

Billy  glanced  back  at  Maria.  She  sat  with  her  hands 
loosely  folded  in  her  lap,  and  she  was  laughing.  Evi- 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  69 

dently  she  had  heard  every  word.     Billy   laughed  too, 
though  sheepishly. 

"Dad's  awful  interesting  ain't  he,  when  he  gits  a  little 
full  'n'  commences  blowin'  ?  "  she  said,  as  his  eye  met 
hers. 

Billy  flushed,  not  knowing  what  to  answer.  But  his 
embarrassment  left  him  like  the  passing  away  of  an 
opaque  obstruction  as  he  discovered  in  her  words  an 
opportunity  to  give  her  a  compliment.  He  looked  into 
her  eyes  with  his  old  unconstrained  laugh. 

"Not  half  's  interestin'  's  what  you  be/'  he  replied, 
gallantly. 

"  Oh,  now,  you !  "  cried  Maria,  in  smiling  reproach. 

Maud  Eliza,  whose  curiosity  had  gradually  overcome 
her  jealousy  of  her  sister,  had  been  holding  her  breath 
for  fear  of  losing  a  word  of  this  novel  conversation.  All 
at  once  she  gave  a  tempestuous  snort  and  hid  her  head  in 
her  apron. 

Billy  did  not  notice.  He  was  too  busy  with  his  com 
pliment. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  foolin',"  he  declared.  "  Ye  be  interestin'." 
He  was  determined  to  be  understood,  but  Maria  only 
shook  her  head  in  incredulous  protest. 

Here  Mr.  Pugsley  broke  into  the  conversation  by 
nudging  his  new  acquaintance  in  the  ribs  with  an  air  of 
secrecy. 

11  Gimme  'nother  drop  o'  bug-juice,  stranger,"  he  said, 
in  a  whisper. 

"Don't  ye  do  it,7'  called  out  Maria,  who  seemed  to 
hear  everything.  ' '  He  's  had  all  he  needs  for  the  pres 
ent,  'n'  he  sha'n't  have  no  more.  The  wind's  in  that 
direction,  'n'  every  time  he  opens  his  mouth  now  it 's  like 
somebody  opened  a  bar'l  o'  whiskey  ;  'n'  that's  'nough 
fer  any  man." 

Mr.  Pugsley  subsided  with  childlike  obedience. 


70  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"That  gal  knows  what's  good  fer  me,"  he  said. 
"She's  a  gal  o'  sperrit  'n'  imaginashun.  Whenever  I  go 
to  do  anything  out  o'  the  way  ye  '11  hear  'er  commence  to 
roar  like  a  dose  o'  quinine.  She  knows.  She 's  got  a 
conscience  't  's  allus  on  the  rampage,  Mariar  has." 

Suddenly  he  nudged  Billy  once  more. 

"Say,  be  ye  purty  well  off?"  he  asked. 

"  Not  p'tickler,"  was  the  answer. 

"Oh  !  "  murmured  Ephraim  in  a  tone  of  waning  en 
thusiasm. 

"I've  got  prospecks  o'  a  purty  good  thing,  though — 
the  best  prospecks  't  's  been  seen  in  Havilah  sence  the 
ole  boom." 

"I  don't  go  much  on  prospecks,"  declared  Mr.  Pugsley. 
"I've  had  'em  myself  more  'n  wunst — I've  allus  been 
havin'  'em  ever  sence  I  can  'member — 'n'  they  never  was 
no  good.  What  I  want  is  facks.  Facks  is  the  only  thing 
't  counts." 

He  meditated  a  little  while. 

"Ye  make  'nough  'ere  in  the  mines  to  s'port  a  wife  'n' 
fam'ly,  I  reckon  ? "  he  questioned. 

"  Oh,  yes,  more  'n'  'nough  fer  that." 

Billy  saw  plainly  the  drift  of  the  old  man's  remarks,  and 
for  some  reason  felt  inclined  to  encourage  him. 

Mr.  Pugsley  settled  back  with  an  exhalation  of  relief. 

"O'  course,"  he  said,  suddenly  sitting  up  again  and 
bringing  his  mouth  close  to  Billy's  ear,  "if  ye  was  to  git 
married  ye  wouldn't  have  no  fam'ly  o'  yer  own  at  fust — 
that's  plain;  so  't  ye  could  'ford  to  keep  yer  wife's 
fam'ly,  jes'  to  ekalize  things  ?  " 

Billy  was  serious  enough  as  he  answered  : 

"If  I  thought  'nough  o'  a  gal  to  marry  'er,  I'd  be 
willin'  to  do  all  I  could  fer  'er  folks.  I'd  consider  'em  a 
part  o'  'er." 

Mr.  Pugsley  beamed. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  yi 

"Ye're  the  very  man  I've  been  lookin'  fer,"  he  whis 
pered,  in  a  voice  choked  with  emotion.  "'Tain't  every" 
feller  't  I'd  trust  a  daughter  o'  mine  to — 'tain't  every 
feller  't  I'd  give  'er  up  to  jes'  fer  the  askin'  in  this  way. 
But  you — God  bless  ye,  my  dear  young  friend,  go  in  'n' 
win  'er  'n'  be  happy  !  "  And  Ephraim  settled  back  rapt 
urously,  as  if  he  had  beheld  an  earthward  flight  of 
heavenly  things. 

This  paternal  disposal  of  his  future  did  not  seem  dis 
agreeable  to  Billy.  But  what  if  Maria  had  heard  this 
whispered  conversation,  as  she  had  heard  those  that  pre 
ceded  it?  How  would  she  take  it?  He  blushed  con 
sciously  and  cast  a  hasty  look  back  at  her.  Her  dark 
eyes  met  his  quizzically,  and  she  laid  the  fore-finger  of 
her  left  hand  delicately  beside  her  nose. 

"Lemme  give  ye  a  word  o'  advice,  young  feller,"  she 
said,  with  careful  explicitness,  taking  her  finger  away 
and  waving  her  hand  airily.  "  I  don't  want  t'  introod  on 
yer  private  bizness,  'n'  I  don't  want  to  force  myself  into 
the  confidence  o'  nobody  ;  but  this  I'll  say  :  When  ye 
marry,  be  sure  ye  git  the  gal  V  not  'er  boozy  ole 
daddy  !  " 

The  young  man  smiled  doubtfully  and  turned  very  red. 
Ephraim  did  not  seem  to  care  much  that  he  had  been 
overheard  ;  but  he  said  nothing  further,  being  so  content 
with  his  own  internal  warmth  that  any  change,  even  the 
slight  one  which  speech  necessitated,  seemed  a  useless 
departure  from  what  was  thoroughly  agreeable.  Billy 
examined  the  flanks  of  the  horses  with  a  studious  air. 
Maria  evidently  intended  her  speech  as  a  rebuff — one 
would  think  that  she  was  not  fond  of  lovers.  But  he 
was  not  going  to  be  discouraged  by  such  a  trifle  .as  that. 
If  he  failed,  he  would  fail  trying.  That  was  a  good 
motto  in  courtship  as  well  as  in  business  affairs.  "  Fail, 
trying."  He  would  remember  that  when  she  discouraged 


72  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

him — which  he  imagined  would  be  often.  It  would 
keep  his  hopes  from  running  too  high,  also,  for  it  implied 
a  potential  failure.  But  the  more  difficult  her  love  was  to 
win,  the  more  valuable  the  possession  of  it  would  be. 
He  would  remember  that  in  the  midst  of  all  sorts  of  dis 
couragements. 

The  big  horses  pulled  steadily  through  the  thickening 
mud,  their  grand  muscles  swelling  with  the  occasional 
increased  strain  brought  to  bear  upon  them.  A  cynic 
would  have  been  led  to  compare  the  motives  of  these 
patient,  conscientious  beasts  with  the  motives  of  the  load 
of  poor  humanity  which  they  dragged — would  have  con 
cluded  that  if,  instead  of  man,  some  animals  had  been 
endowed  with  dominion  over  all  created  things,  creation 
might  have  been  the  gainer  ;  but  no  such  propagator  of 
unscriptural  views  was  present,  and  the  only  voice  lifted 
up  in  protest  was  Mrs.  Pugsley's  wail  of  impersonal 
reproach  whenever  the  wagon  dove  downward  with  un 
usual  violence. 

Billy  would  like  to  have  kept  on  saying  things  expres 
sive  of  his  admiration  for  Maria,  but  he  felt  afraid  ;  and 
the  right  words  would  not  come.  What  man  has  ever 
found  fitting  words  with  which  to  address  the  loveliest 
woman  he  has  ever  seen  ?  The  spirit  is  lost  in  the  letter, 
the  rush  of  feeling  is  dissipated  in  the  effort  intended  to 
strengthen  it.  It  was  enough,  after  all,  just  to  sit  still 
and  think  of  her — words  would  come  later.  He  was  glad 
— selfishly  glad — that  he  was  the  first  man  in  Havilah  to 
meet  her,  for  this  gave  him  an  advantage  over  all  subse 
quent  acquaintances.  That  she  would  be  at  once  beset 
by  all  manner  of  admirers,  he  did  not  for  a  moment 
doubt. .  She  threw  far  into  the  shade  all  women  who  had 
been  in  that  part  of  the  country  within  his  recollection. 
Only  a  short  time  ago  a  snub-nosed,  freckled  girl  from 
Petered-Out — a  camp  on  the  farther  side  of  the  mountains 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  73 

— had  made  a  triumphal  entry  into  Havilah  and  carried  off 
a  successful  young  miner — the  biggest  catch  in  camp — in 
less  than  a  week  after  her  arrival.  After  such  evidence  of 
the  susceptibility  of  the  male  portion  of  the  community, 
what  quantities  of  admiration  might  be  expected  to  fall 
to  the  share  of  a  girl  like  Maria.  Billy  was  not  a  con 
ceited  man,  but  he  had  reason  to  believe  that  he  could 
hold  his  own,  as  far  as  looks  went,  with  the  best  of 
them  in  camp;  and  in  spite  of  Maria's  half-serious  dis 
couragement  of  his  lover-like  advances,  his  hopeful,  happy 
temperament  could  not  help  picturing  agreeable  possi 
bilities.  He  felt  at  the  beginning  of  a  happy  change. 
His  future  seemed  close  beside  him ;  he  stepped  into  its 
clear,  shallow  current  as  blithely  as  a  young  child  steps 
into  a  running  brook.  He  was  still  young — only  twenty- 
six — and  in  spite  of  his  semi-barbarous  life,  the  eager 
hopes  of  youth  and  early  manhood  yet  lay  upon  him,  as 
wholesome  and  refreshing  as  the  raindrops  of  a  summer 
shower. 

After  a  while  he  turned  and  looked  at  Ephraim  some 
what  shamefacedly,  as  if  conscious  of  a  selfish  intent. 

"Well,  ole  feller/''  he  asked,  "have  ye  got  a  cabin 
spoke  fer  to  live  in  after  ye  git  to  Havilah  ?  " 

"Well,  no — I  ain't.  We  ain't  used  to  houses,  nohow. 
We'll  camp  in  the  waggin  ;  mebbe  well  run  acrosst  a 
shanty  o'  some  sort  after  a  while,  but  we're  used  to  the 
waggin." 

"I  wouldn't  do  that!"  cried  Billy  eagerly.  "  I've  got 
a  cabin  there  by  the  river,  't  ain't  been  used  fer  more  'n  a 
year.  I  stay  up  in  the  hills  mostly,  now.  Ye  can  move 
yer  traps  in  there  if  ye  like.  It's  a  heap  better  'n  the 
waggin.  They's  a  stove  'n'  a  table  V  what  not — a  lot  o' 
things  I  didn't  need  up  in  the  hills.  They's  three  rooms, 
too,  'n'  two  o'  'em's  got  beds  what  I  bought  cheap  wunst 
to  a  auction.  Ye'd  better  make  up  yer  mind  to  stopt  here." 


74  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

Mr.  Pugsley  leaned  over  and  laid  his  hand  affectionately 
around  Billy's  shoulders,  bringing  his  ill-favored  visage 
close  to  the  young  man's  ear. 

"That  suits  me  half  to  death  !  "  he  cried  with  enthusi 
asm.  "  Ye'll  make  some  fine  man  a  fine  son-in-law  one 
o'  these  fine  days  !  " 

So  it  was  settled,  and  Billy  felt  as  if  a  new  epoch  had 
begun  in  the  history  of  the  world — an  event  had  occurred 
from  which  time  should  be  computed.  The  current  of  his 
life  had  changed,  had  touched  the  current  of  Maria's  life, 
might  flow  on  beside  it  or  mingle  with  it,  but  never  return 
to  its  former  channel.  He  felt  very  happy  in  that  thought 
— he  could  never  again  be  as  he  had  been.  He  would 
have  something  to  work  for,  something  to  care  for.  Love 
is  the  creative  spirit  of  these  days,  as  of  yore.  It  forms 
a  man  from  the  dust  of  the  earth,  breathes  into  him  the 
divine  breath  and  makes  of  him  a  living  soul.  Billy  gazed 
about  him  with  something  like  a  convalescent's  enjoy 
ment  of  old  things  rejuvenated;  he  saw  everything  in  a 
new  glory ;  the  mountains,  the  sky,  the  river  were  all 
sharers  in  his  young  hopes.  How  pleasant  the  world 
seemed — how  clear  and  pure  !  The  wagon  was  close  to 
the  foothills  now,  and  high  over  his  head  the  wind  struck 
an  .ZEolian  melody  from  the  pines.  Even  the  dead  cedars 
were  beautiful,  flinging  their  interlaced  shadows  like  tan 
gled  spiders'  webs  across  the  yellow  rocks.  Accustomed 
to  the  sympathetic  look  and  speech  of  Nature,  Billy  inter 
preted  the  lights  and  shadows  into  happy  meanings.  The 
sunlight  sifted  through  the  dark  pine  branches,  making 
a  pale  blue  vapor  underneath.  His  future  was -like  that 
— dim  and  uncertain,  indeed,  but  with  hope  streaming 
brightly  across  the  unknown  paths. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


75 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  Pugsley  cavalcade,  with  Maud  Eliza  snorting  with 
undiminjshed  violence  in  the  rear,  arrived  at  the  camp  of 
Havilah  a  little  after  noon. 

Ephraim  beamed  on  the  hospitable  signboards  with  be 
nevolent  cordiality,  and  Mrs.  Pugsley  evinced  signs  of 
interest  by  drawing  up  her  knees  under  the  blankets  and 
giving  desultory  galvanic  jerks  with  her  head  in  the  en 
deavor  to  obtain  an  inclusive  view  of  her  surroundings. 

"  Well,  here  we  air,  ma,"  remarked  Maria,  noticing  the 
moist  woman's  growing  interest,  and  sharing  in  it  with 
rough  sympathy.  "This  is  better  'n  bein'  stuck  in  the 
mud  out  there  on  the  prairie  now,  ain't  it?  Ye  mus' 
own  up  't  this  is  better. " 

"  I  ain't  a-denyin'  't  it's  better.  Who  said  I  was  ?  If  I 
have  my  own  idees  'bout  things,  I  reckon  I  can  keep  'em 
to  myself  if  I  want  to.  But  that  was  allus  yer  way — ye 
want  me  to  keep  a  howlin'  'n'  a  lettin'  my  idees  out  into  the 
world  in  a  constant  stream.  'N'  a  woman  's  better  off  as 
keeps  'er  troubles  to  'erself.  'Tain't  no  way  to  keep  a- 
yawpin'.  Ye'll  find  that  outfer  yerselfwhen  ye  git  a  man 
o'  yer  own." 

The  wagon  lunged  through  the  street  in  an  uncertain, 
spasmodic  way,  like  an  old  man  in  a  hurry.  Maria  bore 
the  inspection  of  the  idlers  about  the  saloons  with  the  com 
posed  impudence  which  prides  itself  on  never  being  stared 
out  of  countenance,  and  Maud  Eliza  tittered  with  a  delight 
ed  sense  of  being  the  cynosure  of  many  masculine  eyes. 
The  idlers  in  front  of  the  saloons  pointed  with  dirty  index 
fingers  at  the  occupants  of  the  wagon,  and  an  occasional 


76  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

remark  was  audible,  expressing  a  judicial  discrimination 
as  to  the  merits  of  the  respective  "  shapes"  of  the  Pugsley 
sisters.  Billy  was  greeted  with  several  cordial  "  Hello's  !" 
and  a  ways  returned  the  salutation  with  the  utmost  friend 
liness. 

Before  one  of  the  shabbiest  of  the  saloons  stood  a  man 
and  a  woman,  evidently  the  proprietors  of  the  place,  who 
at  once  fastened  Maria's  attention. 

"Did  yeever  see  anything 't  was  opened  up  ekal  to  the 
mouths  o'  'em  ?  "  she  asked  of  Billy.  "  If  I  was  them,  I'd 
be  afeerd  o'  the  sun  shinin,  clean  into  my  stummick  'n'  set- 
tin'  my  dinner  on  fire." 

And  Billy  laughed,  thinking  that  Maria  was  the  wittiest 
girl  he  had  ever  met. 

The  man  in  front  of  the  saloon  was  very  tall  and  had 
a  small  head  set  directly  on  an  immense  abdomen,  like 
a  wart  on  an  apple;  and  to  add  to  the  incongruity  of 
his  appearance,  his  legs  were  surprisingly  long  and  frail. 
Maria  regarded  him  with  ill-concealed  amusement.  "  He 
looks  like  a  punkin  on  stilts/'  she  whispered  to  Maud 
Eliza,  who  clutched  her  side  in  an  agony  of  giggles. 

The  woman  was  like  the  fat  lady  of  a  side-show — like 
an  inverted  balloon — like  a  haystack — like  something 
suggestive  of  the  ultimate  exhaustion  of  material.  Her 
gown  was  of  faded  pink  calico,  split  here  and  there  along 
the  seams  and  fitting  tightly  across  her  broad  hips ;  there 
was  a  frayed  flounce  around  the  bottom,  headed  with  the 
inevitable  '  bias"  which  finishes  off  the  feminine  costume 
of  California  mining  camps.  Her  wiry  yellow-locks, 
bleached  to  a  dingy  white  at  the  ends,  suggested  a  long 
interregnum  of  anarchy  between  the  present  hour  and  the 
last  application  of  a  comb.  While  regarding  the  Pugsleys 
with  an  almost  personal  interest,  she  tossed  a  heavy-look 
ing  baby  from  one  arm  to  the  other,  chucking  it  absently 
under  the  chin  and  making  it  squall  wrathfully  while 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  77 

intending  to  soothe  and  amuse  it  Her  divided  attention 
left  her  at  liberty  to  poke  her  fingers  into  the  baby's  eye 
while  seeking  its  chin,  and  these  aimless  explorations 
resulted  in  wild,  ineffectual  yells  of  protest  from  her  victim. 

Marra  could  not  resist  the  temptation  to  have  some  fun 
at  the  fat  woman's  expense.  She  had  made  sport  of 
strangers  frequently,  when  their  peculiarities  happened 
toamusejier.  In  a  question  of  manners  she  was  altogether 
without  judgment ;  she  did  what  pleased  her,  regardless 
of  justice.  Probably  a  large  freedom  of  manners  was  a 
part  of  the  joy  of  the  Hyperboreans  ;  I  can  imagine  Maria 
fitting  into  their  savage  conditions  and  enjoying  to  the  full 
the  measure  of  their  irresponsible  pleasures. 

With  a  sudden  impulse  of  deviltry  she  thrust  her  head 
forward,  squinted  her  eyes,  and  opened  her  mouth  to  its 
utmost  extent  in  exaggerated  imitation  of  the  fat  woman's 
look  ;  then  she  spread  her  fingers  as  far  apart  as  possible 
and  held  her  extended  palms  on  either  side  of  her  face  as 
if  to  indicate  that  a  very  great  expansion  of  herself  was  the 
only  thing  needed  to  complete  the  resemblance.  After 
holding  herself  in  this  attitude  for  a  moment,  she  let  her 
hands  fall  again  into  her  lap,  flung  back  her  head  and 
burst  into  abnormal  laughter. 

The  fat  woman  seemed  to  be  of  a  caloric  temperament, 
for  at  sight  of  this  mirth  she  deposited  the  choking  baby 
on  a  beer  barrel  with  more  emphasis  than  tenderness  and 
squared  herself  toward  the  Pugsleys,  her  feet  spread  wide 
and  her  arms  akimbo.  Shaking  back  her  variegated  locks 
and  breathing  very  hard,  she  shouted  at  Maria  in  a  hoarse 
guttural  voice  : 

"Well,  gawp,  ye  imperdent  hussey,  why  don't  ye? 
Gawp,  do  !  Prob'ly  ye'll  know  a  lady  the  nex'  time  ye 
git  fur  'nough  from  home  to  see  one.  WTiy  don't  ye  gawp, 
ye  cat  ?  'N'  giggle,  do  !  ye  think  ye're  some,  don't  ye, 
a-settin'  up  there  with  yer  bold  face  V  eyes  a-starin'  V 


78  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

snickerin'  at  decent  folks  as  could  buy  V  sell  ye  every 
hour  o'  the  day  V  tween  times  if  they  wan't  afeered  o'  a 
bad  bargain  on  their  hands.  Oh,  gawp  !  we  ain't  hansim 
nor  stylish  nor  grinnin'  from  ear  to  ear  like  some  folks,  but 
we're  jes'  's  good's  anybody  a-goin'  in  this  ere  world.  'N' 
ye  hear  me,"  she  added,  as  if  to  hear  was  to  be  con 
vinced. 

Maria's  training  had  crystallized  into  two  or  three  well- 
defined  principles  of  action,  one  of  which  was,  in  western 
phrase,  "  never  to  take  no  sass  off  m  nobody;  "  her  temper 
was  always  waiting,  like  a  soldier,  the  command  which 
might  lead  to  conquest  The  wagon  was  almost  out  of  hear 
ing  by  this  time,  but  she  thrust  her  head  out  through  the 
tattered  canvas  and  screamed  at  the  top  of  her  voice  : 

"  Sass  is  becomin'  to  ye,  ole  woman—keep  it  up — its 
yer  stronghold !  ye  couldn't  look  purtier  nohow — not  if 
ye  was  sayin'  yer  prayers  ! " 

And  she  laughed  as  insultingly  as  she  knew  how. 

The  woman  seized  her  petticoats  in  one  hand,  extended 
the  other  to  balance  herself  and  started  toward  the  road 
as  if  to  force  Maria  to  a  fist-fight  then  and  there;  but, 
finding  the  mud  too  deep  for  one  of  her  weight,  she  paused 
by  the  side  of  the  road  and  commenced  swearing. 

"  I'll  pay  ye  fer  usin'  yer  lip  on  me!  "  she  screeched  in 
a  phrenzy  of  helpless  rage.  ".Oh,  wait !  I  '11  fix  ye  when 
I  lay  hands  on  ye  ! — may  the  devil  pitchfork  the  heart  o' 
ye !  Won't  I  smash  ye  so' t  ye  won't  know  yerself  fer 
a  month  ?  Won't  I — " 

The  words  were  inaudible  by  this  time,  but  Maria  in 
creased  the  fat  woman's  wrath  by  pointing  a  derisive 
finger  and  then  grasping  her  side  as  if  the  sight  was  really 
two  comical  to  be  borne.  The  fat  woman  still  stood  be 
side  the  road,  and  at  sight  of  Maria's  continued  mirth  she 
again  seized  her  skirts  and  tried  to  get  forward.  But  again 
the  mud  was  too  much  for  her.  She  plunged  wildly  about 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  79 

for  a  moment,  balancing  herself  with  her  disengaged 
hand,  but  presently  was  forced  to  return  to  dry  ground 
where  she  turned  and  shook  her  immense  fist  after  the  re 
treating  wagon.  Then,  after  stamping  about  on  the  steps 
a  short  time,  she  seized  her  squalling  baby  from  the  beer- 
barrel  and  dashed  headlong  into  the  saloon. 

"She'll  take  it  out  on  the  baby,  "  said  Billy,  half  in 
pity.  / 

"  Well,  let'er  !  "  cried  Maria.  "She needn't  think  she's 
goin'  to  take  it  out  on  me  !  I  ain't  a  sand  bag  fer  no 
body." 

"  Well,"  said  Billy,  "  I  don't  guess  ye  air.  'N'  seems 
like  ole  Sammy's  fin'ly  found  somebody  't  ain't  afeerd  o' 
'er  !  " 

"  Sammy  ?     Lor',  what  a  name  for  a  wooman  !  " 

"  Fits  'er  purty  well,  though,  don't  it?  Her  reel 
name  's  Samanthy,  but  everybody  calls  'er  Sammy  fer 
short.  She's  a  bad  'un — a  reg'lar  terror.  W'y  I've  heerd 
'er  own  husban'  say  't  they's  fire  'n  brimstun  'nough  in  that 
wooman  to  burn  up  a  turnpike  road.  Everybody's  afeerd 
o'  'er. " 

Maria  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"  Well,  /ain't,  "  she  said. 

"Maria  don't  keer  fer  nothin',  "  put  in  Ephraim  proudly. 
"  The  devil  ain't  a  patchin'  to  my  gal  Mariar  !  " 

"  I  thought  she  was  goin'  to  waltz  right  out  through  the 
mud  'n'  yank  ye  out  o'  the  waggin,"  said  Billy.  "  She'd 
a  done  it  if  the  mud  hadn't  been  so  deep." 

"  Would  she  ?  I'd  like  to  ketch  'er  at  it,"  said  Maria 
with  decision. 

"  She's  got  a  awful  temper." 

"So  've  I." 

"  But  she's  the  biggest,"  said  Billy,  amused  and  admir 
ing.  He  liked  a  woman  of  spirit — one  who  could  take  care 
of  herself  and  enjoy  the  occupation. 


8o          IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"I  don't  keer  how  big  she  is,"  declared  Maria.  "I 
am'  a-goin'  to  set  down  'nj  be  run  over  by  nobody.  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  have  no  ole  Sammy  nor  nobody  else 
jumpin'  onto  me  with  both  feet  'n'  say  nothin'  back.  I 
guess  I've  got  a  right  to  grin.  She'd  make  a  fun'ral  grin, 
that  critter  would." 

"  Ye  jumped  onto  'er  fust,"  said  Maud  Eliza,  with  unex 
pected  acuteness. 

"  Mariar's  allus  joslin',"  declared  Ephraim  with  his 
hoarse  cnuckle.  "  I  seen  'er  makin'  faces  at  the  ole  critter 
at  the  very  start.  She  a'n't  afeered  o'  God  A'mighty, 
Mariar  ain't." 

' '  She'll  git  it  tuck  out  o'  'er  when  she  gits  married, 
though,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley  in  the  tone  of  a  priestess  who 
delivers  oracular  responses. 

"  Well,  I  like  grit  in  a  wooman,"  said  Billy,  with  his 
light  laugh.  "The  wimmin  need  it's  much 's  the  men 
does  in  this  country." 

"  I  hate  wimmin  't  set  aroun'  's  harmless 's  picters,"  de 
clared  Maria.  "  What's  the  use  o'  a  life  like  that  ? 
Better  be  dead  to  wunst  'n'  done  with  it.  I  believe  in 
lettin'  folks  know  I'm  aroun'.  It's  the  least  a  gal  can 
do." 

"I'm  afreed  yer  ort'n't  to  a-done  it,  though,"  said  Ephraim 
with  the  mild  reproof  occasioned  by  judicious  after 
thought.  "  I  don't  think  ye  orter — reely. " 

"  Oh,  it'ud  a-been  all  right  wiihjyou  if  they  didn't  keep 
a  saloon,"  retorted  Maria.  4<  Ye're  afeerd  they  won't  want 
ye  loafin'  aroun'  there  now — that's  all  't  ailsjyou." 

And  Ephraim  did  not  deny  the  charge. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  8 1 


CHAPTER   X. 

THE  cabin  which  Billy  Bling  placed  at  the  disposal  of 
the  Puggleys  was  a  three-roomed  wooden  structure,  with 
a  shaky  roof  and  a  veranda.  The  veranda  faced  the 
cotton  woods  and  the  river,  and  commanded  a  com 
prehensive  view  of  the  far-off  mountains  ;  and  at  the 
back  of  the  house  the  ground  sloped  rapidly  up  to  the 
foot-hills.  The  house  was  unpainted,  the  chimney  had 
crumbled,  and  some  of  the  windows  were  broken,  the 
roof  was  Warped,  too,  and  several  clapboards  were 
loose,  one  above  the  doorway,  especially,  was  hanging  in 
a  helpless  way,  as  if  wondering  at  its  unaccountable  de 
tention  in  mid-air.  The  building  looked  as  if  a  sharp 
wind  would  cut  through  it,  and  as  if  a  storm  would 
demolish  it.  Happily,  storms  and  sharp  winds  were  rare 
in  this  part  of  the  world,  so  that  the  house  formed  a  con 
venient,  if  not  ornamental,  shelter.  The  veranda  had  a 
hospitable  look,  and  the  yard  was  even  pretentious  in  its 
magnitude,  though  the  fence  was  almost  obliterated  in 
places.  The  small,  blurred  windows  held  a  look  of  phil 
osophic  discernment  which  made  one  feel,  before  enter 
ing,  as  if  he  were  about  to  penetrate  the  recesses  of  an 
experienced  old  man's  brains.  Old  houses  almost  always 
have  this  look  of  mystery  ;  it  is  a  part  of  their  indi 
viduality. 

Maria  liked  it  at  once.  It  was  more  homelike  than 
anything  she  had  known  since  her  father  kept  a  gin-shop 
in  Nevada  City,  when  she  was  a  little  child.  She  experi 
enced  a  sudden  modification  of  her  conceptions  of  Havilah. 
All  the  houses  were  not  saloons — here  was  an  agreeable 


82  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH, 

proof  of  that  fact.  Here  was  a  place  where  she  could  go 
in  and  out  as  she  chose ;  a  door  to  open  and  shut,  and 
windows  to  look  out  of  whenever  she  liked,  herself 
screened  from  the  passer-by.  She  commenced  to  wonder 
why  she  had  never  missed  this  privacy  which  all  at  once 
seemed  so  pleasant;  she  had  never  thought  of  its  advan 
tages  at  all  while  obliged  to  put  up  with  the  wagon-cover 
as  her  only  screen  from  strangers'  eyes,  but  had  rather 
regarded  houses  as  an  affectation  of  weak-minded  peo 
ple.  But,  with  a  house  of  her  own,  this  idea  changed 
suddenly.  The  sense  of  possession  filled  her  with  keen 
enjoyment.  The  rose-vines,  torn  loose  from  their  leather 
fastenings,  swayed  helplessly  about  the  veranda,  but  she 
touched  their  leafless  branches  tenderly  as  she  passed  up 
the  steps,  no  longer  doubting  that  she  liked  flowers,  now 
that  there  was  a  prospect  of  having  some  of  her  own. 
She  mentally  resolved  that  she  would  nail  the  vines  back 
to  their  support  without  delay,  and  prepare  them  for  such 
a  season  of  blossoming  as  they  had  never  known  before. 
They  were  mute  prophecies  of  bright  colors  and  sweet 
scents  which  would  be  all  her  own  ;  and  she  knew  that 
the  big  drowsy  bees  would  hover  about  the  place  a  little 
later,  filling  the  air  with  a  noise  that  would  shame  the 
shrunken  river.  And  the  river  was  very  near — she  could 
see  it  through  the  leafless  cottonwoods,  whirling  past  like 
a  river  of  clouds  ;  the  roar  of  it  came  to  her  ears  like  the 
roar  of  a  cannonade.  The  foothills  were  but  a  little  way 
off,  too,  with  their  shadowy  recesses  and  venerable  pines. 
Maria  did  not  usually  look  at  the  mountains  with  much 
attention ;  she  was  used  to  the  changing  aspect  of  rocks 
and  trees,  and  found  little  or  no  enjoyment  in  contem 
plating  them  ;  there  was  no  movement  in  them,  no  soul ; 
they  were  as  stale  as  imaginations  grown  familiar  by  repe 
tition.  But  to-day  the  foothills  appeared  to  her  in  a  new 
light  ;  they  belonged  to  the  surroundings  of  her  home. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  83 

The  rounded  summits  of  red  sandstone  looked  as  softly 
flushed  as  apples  that  bask  in  the  October  sun.  The 
delicate  fa$ades  that  diversified  the  rocky  walls — a  trav 
eller  would  have  discovered  in  their  faint  tracery  a  resem 
blance  to  the  rock-carved  ruins  of  some  Eastern  necropo 
lis — for  the  first  time  appeared  to  her  worthy  of  notice; 
She  would  see  those  ridges  and  chasms  every  day — they 
would/  be  a  part  of  her  external  life.  But  the  river,  the 
river !  She  turned  to  look  at  it  again  ;  she  was  glad 
beyond  measure  to  have  it  so  near  her.  She  always 
thought  of  running  water  as  a  living  thing  with  a  human 
voice  and  human  affections,  and  there  had  been  times 
as  she  sat  listening  to  it  when  she  could  almost  imagine 
herself  into  its  experience  as  it  passed  outward  and  on 
ward  all  the  way  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea.  The 
full-fed  cattle  lying  at  ease  on  the  shady  bank  may  do  as 
much,  quite  dulled  to  all  consciousness  but  that  of  wide- 
reaching  enjoyment. 

Billy  waited  by  the  wagon  and  helped  Mrs.  Pugsley  to 
alight,  well  knowing  that  Maria  was  looking  on  and 
would  be  pleased  with  any  little  attention  of  that  sort  to 
her  mother ;  a  simple  act  of  kindness,  but  which  he  was 
far-seeing  enough  to  believe  would  form  a  link  in  a  chain 
of  possible  causes.  Mrs.  Pugsley  dropped  one  shoe  at 
the  gate,  and  came  the  rest  of  the  way  up  the  path  carry 
ing  it  in  her  hand,  an  unmistakable  symbol  of  disintegra 
tion  ;  altogether  presenting  a  companion  picture  to  Abaris 
traversing  Greece  with  an  arrow  in  his  hand  as  a  symbol 
of  Apollo. 

Billy  unlocked  the  rickety  door  and  stood  on  the 
threshold  smiling,  waiting  for  Maria  to  enter  first.  She 
gave  her  hand  to  her  mother,  who  was  climbing  the  steps 
with  some  difficulty ;  then  she  turned  to  him  with  a  glad 
smile. 

"I  like  it  a'ready,"  she  said,  looking  into  his  eyes  with 


84  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

frank  "happiness.  "  Ye're  very  good  to  us.  It's  better  'n 
what  I'm  used  to." 

Only  a  student  of  the  embryology  of  love  could  explain 
why  Billy  turned  so  red  at  these  words  of  commendation, 
and  why  he  kept  his  face  shyly  turned  away,  .as  if  fearing 
that  she  might  read  the  new  hope  in  his  eyes.  He  was 
sure  he  wanted  her  to  know  his  real  feeling,  above  all 
things  ;  but  it  made  him  quiver  all  over  with  helplessness 
and  happiness  and  silliness  whenever  he  thought  of  her 
becoming  aware  of  it. 

They  went  into  the  house.  In  a  moment  Billy  was 
out  to  the  wagon  again,  and  in  another  moment  he  was 
back  with  an  armful  of  blankets  which  he  deposited  in  a 
corner  of  the  room,  and  Mrs.  Pugsley  immediately  settled 
down  upon  them  like  one  who  has  attained  an  ambition, 
remarking  that  this  was  "suthin'  like  bein'  a  Swipes." 
She  had  a  stranded  look  in  such  dry  surroundings.  Maria 
regarded  everything  with  the  cheerfulness  born  of  favor 
able  contrast.  She  felt  as  proud  and  happy  as  if  a  royal 
demesne  had  suddenly  fallen  to  her  by  inheritance ;  and 
indeed  such  a  habitation  is  by  no  means  to  be  despised 
in  a  land  where  circumstance,  the  crude  lexicographer, 
makes  utility  synonymous  with  luxury. 

"  'Tain't  nothin'  extry,"  said  Billy,  apologetically,  "But 
I  reckon  it'll  be  more  comf  table  'n  the  waggin.  They's  a 
lot  o'  truck  aroun'  't  I've  kep'  handy  to  cook  with  when  I 
happened  to  want  to  stop  here  over  night,  or  sech  a  mat 
ter  ;  'n'  they's  wood  in  the  woodshed  yit,  if  I  'member 
right." 

Maria  opened  the  woodshed  door  in  order  to  satisfy 
herself  with  her  own  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  she  cried,  "  they  t's  wood  there,  a  lot  o'  it,  'n'  all 
split,  too  !  W'y,  they's  everything  !  'N'  here's  a  shovel  to 
take  up  the  ashes  with — ma,  did  ye  ever  see  the  beat  ? 
'N'  a  saw-hoss  'n  'a  axe,  'n' — 'n'  everything  !  Lor ' !  won't 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  85 

we  have  a  kick-up  here  all  by  ourselves  !  W'y  it's  royal, 
that's  what  'tis— a  elegant  sufficiency  o'  everything  ?  I'd 
ruther  be  here  'n  with  the  angel  Gabriel  this  minute  !  " 
And  she  commenced  opening  the  stove-doors  one  after 
another. 

"  I'm  glad  ye  like  it,"  Billy  ventured  to  say. 

"  Yes,  we  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley  with  condescen 
sion.  "  It's  what  we  was  used  to  afore  misfortshun  over 
took  us.  We  wa'n't  allus  common  scrubs  like  what  ye  see 
now, " 

l(  I'm  sure  nobody 'd  take  ye  fer  common  scrubs,"  re 
turned  Billy,  "/wouldn't,  least  o'  all." 

The  moist  woman  drew  a  blanket  around  her,  in  a  royal, 
all-presupposing  manner,  and  then  sank  back  as  if  to  a 
slow  and  poisonous  decay.  "This  is  suthin'  like  bein5 
a  Swipes,"  she  remarked  again,  and  she  closed  her  eyes. 

"  Dad,"  said  Maria  with  an  air  of  bland  authority,  "  ye 
mus'  go  right  out  now  'n'  git  a  chunk  o'  bacon  somers  'n' 
lemme  try  this  'ere  stove.  Lor',  I  ain't  had  holt  o'  a  stove 
afore  fer  a  age  'n'  a  half.  I  wonder  if  I'll  know  how  to 
act  with  it.  Is  this  'ere  jigger  in  the  pipe  a  damper?  'N' 
how  does  it  go  ?  Oh,  yes,  I  see  now.  Run,  dad,  'n'  git 
the  bacon.  I'm  jes'  cavin'  in  with  hunger,  'n'  the  sight 
o'  a  stove  puts  me  clean  on  the  rampage.  Ye've  got  six 
bits  left,  hain't  ye  ?  That'll  buy  'nough  fer  two  or  three 
days.  We've  got  some  coffee  yit — run  out  to  the  wagin 
'n'  git  it,  Maud  Eliza — run  !  " 

Maud  Eliza  tittered  and  skipped  wildly  out  of  the  room 
and  down  the  path,  kicking  up  her  skirts  very  high  be 
hind. 

"  We'd  better  set  the  fire  a-goin  the  fust  thing,  I  reckon," 
said  Billy,  "  'n'  then  I'll  go  after  the  grub.  I  know  where 
to  git  it,  'n'  yer  dad  might  have  to  hunt  fer  the  place  !  " 

"  He'd  find  it  soon  'nough  if  they  kep'  it  at  the  saloons," 
said  Maria.  "But  do  jes'  's  ye  like.  I'll  go  split  some 


86  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

kindlin'  while  ye're  away  'n'  set  the  fire  a-goin .     Lor', 
what  times  !  " 

She  went  out  into  the  woodshed,  and,  instead  of  starting 
at  once  for  the  victuals,  Billy  followed  her  as  devoutly  as 
a  young  enthusiast  follows  a  heavenly  vision.  When  he 
reached  the  doorway  she  already  had  a  stick  in  position 
and  was  raising  the  axe  for  a  blow. 

"  Wait — wait  !  "  he  called  to  her,  eagerly. 

She  stopped  and  looked  at  him  smilingly,  with  the  axe 
poised  in  mid-air. 

"  Wait  ?  "  she  called  out  to  him  interrogatively.  "  What 
fer  ?  " 

"  Why,  /want  to  split  the  kindlin' !  " 

"  What  fer?  "  she  repeated,  still  smiling  and  with  the 
axe  still  poised.  He  thought  he  had  never  seen  anything 
so  beautiful  as  she  was  just  then,  with  her  strong,  firm 
figure  thrown  into  that  alert  attitude  and  her  muscular 
arms  holding  the  axe  as  if  it  were  no  more  than  a 
feather's  weight.  Her  lips  were  parted,  so  that  her  white 
teeth  shone  through,  and  her  eyes  were  shining  like  pre 
cious  stones. 

As  he  did  not  answer,  she  lowered  the  axe  so  that  the 
iron  head  rested  upon  the  foot  with  which  she  was  hold 
ing  the  stick  in  place  on  the  ground ;  then  she  crossed 
her  hands  on  the  top  of  the  helve,  still  looking  at  him. 
When  she  spoke  again  the  laughter  had  died  out  of  her 
face  somewhat. 

"  What  d'  ye  want  to  split  the  kindlin'  fer?  "  she  asked 
again. 

She  seemed  so  self-controlled,  so  sure  of  herself  and 
her  future,  so  capable  of  turning  all  things  into  whatsoever 
direction  she  would,  while  he  was  certain  only,  that  he 
loved  her  and  longed  to  serve  her. 

"W'y,"  he  began  stammeringly,  "I  reckon  't  bein'  a 
man  it  'ud  be  properer  fer  me  to  do  it. " 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  87 

She  laughed  and  let  the  axe  fall  from  her  hands  to  the 
ground. 

"  I'm  sech  a  dellycut  thing,  ain't  I,"  she  cried,  moving 
back  against  the  wall  and  standing  with  her  arms  akimbo. 
"Well,  ye  can  split  the  kindlin'  if  ye  like  'n'  I'll  stan'  'ere 
'n'  look  on  'n'  play  the  lady." 

Billy  came  forward  and  picked  up  the  axe.  It  was 
probably  his  bending  posture  that  caused  him  to  flush  so 
hotly,  as  he  said  : 

"Bein'alady  ain't  no  play  with  you,  I'll  go  bail.  If 
they  ever  was  a  lady  anywheres,  it's  you,  'n'  so  I  tell  ye, 
right  now  !  " 

Maria  laughed. 

"Oh,  I  mean  it,  "declared  Billy,  giving  the  stick  of  kind 
ling  a  random  blow  that  caused  the  dry  dirt  to  fly  in  all 
directions  and  rattle  against  the  walls,  "I  mean  it,  every 
word ;  'n'  I'd  like  to  ketch  the  feller  't  dares  deny  it ! " 

"It  wouldn't  be  no  great  ketch,  I  reckon,"  declared 
Maria.  "Lor,  there's  MaudElizy  with  the  coffee,  "she  add 
ed  as  that  hilarious  damsel  made  her  appearance,  titter 
ing,  in  the  woodshed  door.  "Did  ye  have  to  hunt  all 
over  the  waggin  afore  ye  found  it?  'n'  how  much  is  they 
o'  it?  'Nough  fer  two-three  drawin's  yit,  ain't  they  !" 
She  reached  out  her  hand  for  the  package,  opened  it  and 
looked  in.  "Oh,  yes,  they'll  be  'nough  to  last  till  day 
after  to-morrer  if  we're  savin' ;  'n'  mebbe  dad  '11  get  work 
by  that  time,  so  't'  we  needn't  scrimp  no  more. " 

"Ye  never'd  guess  where  I  found  it,"  said  Maud  Eliza, 
snorting  at  some  comical  recollection  which  went  through 
and  through  her  and  doubled  her  up  into  her  apron. 

"Well,  where?"  asked  Maria,  willing  to  be  amused. 

"  Guess  !  "  cried  the  giggler,  grasping  her  side  and  keep 
ing  her  head  concealed  in  her  apron. 

"No,  I  never  could  guess  nothin'.  Mebbe  Mr.  filing-  '11 
try." 


88  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"  I  never  could  guess  nothing  nother,"  declared  Billy, 
pausing  in  his  task  very  willingly  to  declare  his  similarity 
to  Maria  even  in  the  insignificant  particular  of  guessing. 
"I  never  could  guess  the  fust  blame  thing  !  " 

The  giggler  withdrew  her  head  from  her  apron  and 
kicked  one  foot  playfully  toward  the  young  man  over  the 
threshold  while  she  still  clutched  her  apron  in  both  hands. 

"  Well,  111  tell  ye,  then/'  she  snickered.  "  It  was  wrap 
ped  up  in  one  o'  my  ole  shoes  !  "  With  that  she  "  let  go  " 
of  herself  somewhere'  with  a  violence  that  sent  her  spin 
ning  into  the  front  room  where  she  tumbled  upon  an  empty 
candle-box  under  the  window  in  a  spasm  of  fearful  snorts. 

Maria  smiled  a  little,  too. 

11  'Twon't  hurt  the  coffe  none,"  she  said,  philosophi 
cally.  "  They  was  a  paper  'round  it.  Lor  !  ye'vegot  'nough 
kindlin*  wood  to  last  a  plump  week.  Now,  let's  see  what 
the  stove's  like.  D'ye  reckin  it  11  draw  ?  We  used  to  have 
a  stove  to  Navady  City 't  smoked  us  to  herrin'  s  every  time 
we  cooked  on  it.  I  hope  this  'un  ain't  like  that. 

"  No,  I  'm  sure  this  'un  ain't  like  that, "  said  Billy,  gather 
ing  up  an  armful  of  kindling  and  following  her  into  the 
front  room.  "They  ain't  been  no  fire  in  it  fer  sometime 
now,  but  I  reckon  it  11  go. " 

Maria  knelt  down  by  the  hearth  and  he  deposited  the 
kindling  in  a  heap  at  her  side.  She  took  up  two  or  three 
sticks  in  a  thoughtful  way  and  turned  them  over  and  over 
in  her  hands. 

"  I  'm  'feard  they  won't  light  less  they  been  whittled  a 
little,"  she  said.  " Gimme  yer  knife  a  minute,  will  ye? 
D'  ye  ever  see  a  wooman  whittle? " 

"D'  know*'s  I  did,"  he  answered,  drawing  out  his  knife 
and  unclasping  it,  "'n  I  d'  know's  I  want  to.  I  11  whittle 
the  kindlin's.  That's  man"s  work,  too." 

"Oh,  pshaw  !"  said  Maria.  "I  reckon  wimmin's  good 
fer  suthin  !  " 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  89 

"Oh,  yes  wimmin's  good  fer  suthin,"  assented  Billy, 
cheerfully.  And  then  with  a  rush,  "I  wouldn't  object  if 
ye  said  one  o'  'em  was  good  fer  everything  ! 

Maria  took  the  whittled  sticks  from  him  as  fast  as  they 
were  ready  and  laid  them  in  a  loose  pile  inside  the  stove. 
Once  she  looked  up  at  him  with  sudden  gratitude  and  said 
impulsively  : 

.  "  YQ  're  very  good  to  us — all  o'  us.  I  hope  ye  won't 
never  regret  it — d'ye  reckin  ye  will  ?  "  He  looked  at  her 
with  a  stress  of  emotion  which  made  him  afraid  to  speak 
— -with  a  magnetic  tingling  of  nerve  that  came  of  a  height 
ened  sense  of  comprehension  and  sympathy.  He  wished 
he  dared  touch  her — dared  tell  her  all  that  was  in  his  heart, 
then  and  there.  But  that  was  impossible.  Mrs.  Pugsley 
and  Maud  Eliza  were  both  in  the  room,  the  former  obliv 
ious  to  everything,  even  the  slow  process  by  which  she 
seemed  changing  into  an  unwholesome  vapor.  He  glanc 
ed  around  to  see  what  Maud  Eliza  was  doing.  She  was 
sitting  on  the  candle-box  by  the  window,  her  back  toward 
him,  and  she  seemed  to  be  picking  holes  in  the  window- 
ledge  with  the  point  of  a  pin.  Just  then  Maria  scratched 
a  match  under  his  nose  and  leaned  forward  to  apply  it 
to  the  shavings  ;  for  a  moment  their  faces  were  close  to 
gether  and  when  she  lifted  her  head  a  stray  lock  of  hair 
brushed  his  cheek.  Her  face  was  in  the  opposite  direction 
and  before  he  knew  what  he  had  done,  he  had  turned  and 
kissed  that  fluttering  tress  of  hair  !  And  she  did  not  know 
— how  could  she  !  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  a  moment 
later  for  taking  advantage  of  her  so,  but  for  his  life  he  could 
not  have  helped  it.  No  man  is  always  master  of  himself 
in  the  presence  of  the  woman  he  loves,  and  Billy's  soul  had 
obeyed  that  sudden  impulse  of  tenderness  as  promptly  as 
his  muscles  ordinarily  obeyed  his  will.  When  Maria  turn 
ed  from  the  stove  again  she  wondered  why  Billy  was  blow- 


90  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVTLAH. 

ing  so  hard  at  the  blaze  which  was  leaping  up  brightly  as 
if  disclaiming  the  need  of  his  eager  assistance. 

As  soon  as  Billy  dared  look  up  he  glanced  back  once  more 
at  Maud  Eliza  to  see  if  she  had  noticed  anything  ;  but  she 
was  still  sitting  with  her  back  toward  him,  picking  some 
sort  of  pattern  in  the  window-ledge  with  the  point  of  her 
pin.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  felt  guilty  enough 
to  endure  any  sort  of  punishment — that  is  any  sort  of  pun 
ishment  short  of  Maria's  anger  at  his  audacity — but  he  was 
glad  that  no  one  suspected  him  and  that  there  was  no  pros 
pect  of  his  getting  his  just  deserts. 


2N  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  91 


CHAPTER  XL 

WHEN  the  fire  was  well  started  Maria  rose  from  her 
teees,  as  impatient  of  the  delay  before  getting  dinner  as  a 
fashionable  woman  who  is  obliged  to  postpone  a  shop 
ping  expedition  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour. 

"It  seems  a  thousan'  years  till  I  can  git  to  cookin'  on 
that  air  stove,"  she  said,  regarding  that  article  of  furniture 
with  affectionate  ownership.  "I'd  ruther  have  it  V  a 
cart  load  o'  that  jewl'ry  like  what  the  women  in  'Frisco 
load  theirselves  down  with.  It  makes  a  body  feel  sort  o' 
lifted  up  'n'  airy  to  git  a  house  'n'  fumiter  'n7  all  this  truck 
to  wunst.  I  feel  like  I  was  bein'  fooled,  somehow,  'n'  't 
can't  be  true." 

"Well,  I'll  strike  outfer  the  grub  now, "said Billy,  mak 
ing  for  the  door.  "I  reckon  ye  all  feel  ruther  holler  after 
the  trip  ye've  had  'n'  can  git  aroun'  a  reasonable  pile. 
Mind,"  he  added,  turning  on  the  threshold  and  laughing 
back  at  Maria,  "'n'  don't  wake  up  'fore  I  come  back,  fer 
that  'ud  prove  it's  all  a  dream  !  " 

"  No  fear  but  what  I'll  stay  asleep  's  long 's  I  can  if  this 
is  dreamin',"  answered  Maria.  "I  ain't  the  one  to  let  a 
soft  snap  go  afore  I  have  to,  ye  can  bet  on  that !  " 

Half-way  down  the  path  he  called  back  again  : 

"  Tell  yer  ma,"  he  said,  "'t  I'm  a-goin'  to  git  'er  the 
best  lot  o'  ham  sandwitchers  in  Havilah,  with  a  layer  o' 
ham  'n'  mustard  into  'em  's  thick  's  'er  foot !  "  And  then, 
seeing  the  look  of  approval  on  Maria's  face,  he  shut  the 
gate  with  an  inconsequent  bang  and  in  a  moment  was  out 
of  sight 

"  He's  a  reel  nice  feller,  anyhow,"  said  Maria,  turning 


92  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

back  into  the  room.  "A  reel  nice  feller.  Id'  know  's  1 
ever  seen  one  afore  where  the  goodness  seemed  to  go 
clean  through  'n'  through  'n'  stick  out  the  way  it  does 
with  him.'' 

And  Ephraim,  freed  from  the  responsibility  of  provis 
ioning  the  establishment,  sat  down  in  the  woodshed  door 
and  chuckled  in  a  knowing  way.  It  was  a  theory  of  his 
that  when  a  girl  begins  to  call  a  young  man  a  nice  fellow 
she  must  be  ' '  pretty  far  gone. " 

"Oh,  I  reckon  they's  folks  't  'ud  call  'im  a  nice  feller," 
remarked  Maud  Eliza  in  a  judicial  manner  that  implied 
mental  reservations  in  this  particular  case,  though  she 
thought  best  to  speak  in  general  terms. 

"'N'  they's  fools  in  the  world 't  don't  know  a  decent 
man  when  they  lay  eyes  on  'im,"  said  Maria,  mimicking 
her  sister's  tone. 

"  'N'  they's  folks  in  this  world  Vs  nothin'  but  fools  when 
they  think  they're  awful  smart,"  retorted  Maud  Eliza, 
spurred  into  unusual  mental  activity  by  the  consciousness 
that  the  red-headed  stranger  had  paid  very  little  attention 
to  her.  * '  They's  fools  in  this  world 't  thinks  they're  awful 
smart,"  she  added,  cuttingly. 

"  Well,  don't  quar'l "  quavered  Mrs.  Pugsley  from  her 
blankets,  undertaking  the  part  of  peacemaker  with  her 
dreary  formula.  "  The  world's  wide  'nough  to  get  along 
in  'thout  quar'lin'." 

"Some  folks  thinks  red  hair  is  purty/'said  Maud  Eliza, 
flashing  a  glance  of  defiance  at  her  sister,  and  descending 
with  scornful  dignity  from  the  general  to  the  particular. 
"  'N'  some  folks  thinks  scrubby  red  moustaches  is  hansim 
'n'  genteel ;  but  they's  others  in  this  world  't  wouldn't  look 
at  'em — thank  the  Lord  !  " 

"Well — well  !"  put  in  Ephraim  in  his  tone  of  reconcilia 
tion. 

"They's  folks  in  this  world  't  thinks  dif'rent,"  added 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  93 

Maud  Eliza.  "  They's  folks 't  has  better  tastes,  thank  the 
Lord  !  " 

"  If  she  keeps  'er  mouth  a-goin'  'bout  Billy  Bling  at  that 
rate, "  declared  Maria  with  the  fire  in  her  eye,  ' '  she'll  git 
it  slapped  all  over  'er  face,  fust  thing  she  knows.  Ye 
orter  be  'shamed,  after  all  he's  done  fer  us.  If  I  hadn't  no 
more  sense  o'  gratitude,  I'd  set  down  'n'  eat  my  ears  !  " 

But  fylaud  Eliza,  far  from  feeling  remorseful,  sniffed 
disdainfully  and  commenced  picking  the  window-sill  with 
her  pin  once  more.  However,  she  was  careful  not  to 
say  anything  further  about  red  hair  and  scrubby  mous 
taches  after  Maria's  very  definite  threat  about  slapping. 

Billy  hurried  away,  blissfully  ignorant  of  Maria's 
championship  of  him  :  perhaps  he  could  not  have  been 
happier  had  he  known.  He  was  too  glad  even  to  want 
to  sing — a  mode  of  expression  which  he  had  hitherto 
found  adequate  to  the  exigencies  of  any  sort  of  hilarity  ; 
he  did  not  want  to  make  any  kind  of  noise  ;  he  wanted 
to  let  the  thought  of  Maria  fill  him  undisturbed  by  anything 
— he  wanted  to  hurry  on  and  do  something  for  her  and  exult 
in  the  power  to  be  of  use  to  her.  It  seemed  to  him  a  wonder 
ful  thing  that  the  people  about  the  camp  could  not  guess  his 
errand — he  knew  they  could  not,  though  the  world  seemed 
so  full  of  it ;  he  could  pass  them  face  to  face  without  one  of 
them  suspecting  that  he  was  high  in  the  favor  of  the  love 
liest  woman  in  all  the  world — that  possibly  he  was  making 
her  love  him  for  the  service  he  was  rendering  her.  He  was 
glad  people  could  not  guess  it — he  wanted  to  be  alone 
with  his  hopes  and  dreams.  There  would  be  time  enough 
to  enjoy  the  envy  and  congratulations  of  people  here 
after. 

Billy's  regard  for  women  had  always  been  as  widely 
removed  as  possible  from  love  and  passion ;  it  had 
amounted  to  a  tender  reverence  for  them  as  the  purest 
and  best  of  God's  creatures.  He  had  memories  of  better 


94  W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

days  than  these  he  had  passed  in  California — memories 
which  came  back  to  him  fitfully  with  sweet  messages, 
like  winds  breathing  from  a  distance.  The  remembrance 
of  his  dead  mother's  love  often  recurred  to  him  with  a 
pang  that  was  half-pleasant  and  made  him  long,  in  a  help 
less,  desolate  way,  for  a  renewal  of  her  caressing  tender 
ness.  He  never  in  his  thoughts  classed  the  women  of 
Havilah  even  generically  with  that  dead  mother,  who 
had  become  to  him  the  type  of  all  true  womanhood  ;  they 
were  monsters,  a  cross  between  brute  and  human,  center 
ing  in  themselves  the  worst  qualities  of  each.  But  he 
could  reconcile  Maria  with  the  image  of  his  mother.  He 
was  sure  she  was  kind  of  heart  and  would  be  a  faithful, 
loving  wife  to  the  man  who  was  fortunate  enough  to  win 
her.  He  could  imagine  her  in  her  maturity  still  more  like 
the  mother  he  had  lost — kind  and  considerate,  earnest 
and  affectionate, — a  softened  image  of  her  present  con 
tradictory  self.  His  love  for  her  was  a  growth  so  sudden 
as  to  produce  some  confusion  in  his  thoughts,  but  he  was 
very  certain  that  she  was  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
he  could  ever  care  for.  He  wondered,  with  a  delicious 
sense  of  present  enjoyment,  how  it  was  that  He  had  never 
missed  her  in  all  these  years  when  all  at  once  she  seemed 
so  essentially  a  part  of  him.  Possibly  the  time  had  been 
a  preparation.  At  any  rate,  he  was  quite  ready  for  her. 
He  seemed  to  have  been  waiting  for  her  without  know 
ing  it.  That  was  why  he  recognized  her  so  quickly  and 
felt  the  need  of  her  all  in  a  moment.  It  does  not  take 
any  man  long  to  fall  in  love  who  has  never  had  occasion 
to  entrench  himself  in  single  blessedness  by  the  cheerful 
recollection  that  Adam's  was  a  helpmeet  to  evil ;  and  this 
was  especially  true  of  Billy  who,  in  matters  of  the  heart, 
was  utterly  without  experience  and  had  formed  but  few 
opinions  from  observation.  He  was  perfectly  convinced 
that  Maria  was  good;  he  felt  as  if  he  had  known  her  and 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OP  HAVILAH.  95 

had  seen  into  her  heart  since  the  beginning  of  time.  He 
could  not  understand  Maria  at  once  in  all  her  preferences, 
but  in  a  general  way  she  was  quite  plain — a  known  island 
in  the  waste  ocean  of  his  ignorance  of  femininity.  She  ex 
plained  herself  in  that  mysterious  thrill  of  sympathy  which 
supplies  the  place  of  many  reasons  where  love  is  deep 
and  unselfish. 

BillyMid  not  have  to  go  very  far  for  the  provisions,  but 
it  was  far  enough  to  give  him  all  the  time  he  needed  to 
think  of  Maria.  How  different  she  was  from  these 
characterless,  unwholesome  women  of  Havilah — from  her 
own  gaseous  mother  and  weak-minded  sister,  from  all 
the  women  in  the  world,  for  that  matter  !  She  was  the 
prototype  of  his  conception  of  a  perfect  woman,  honest, 
independent  and  affectionate.  He  returned  to  the  cabin, 
smiling  even  more  broadly  than  when  he  left  it,  and  der 
posited  his  heap  of  provisions  on  the  table.  Maria  came 
to  his  side  at  once  and  commenced  untying  the  parcels. 

"  Lor',  if  there  ain't  the  sandwitchers  fin'ly  'n'  at  last  !" 
she  cried  in  delight,  carrying  the  package  to  her  mother, 
and  placing;  it  at  the  moist  woman's  side  on  the  blanket. 
"  Jes'  look  at  'em,  now,-  ma!  Don't  them  look  good  ? 
Ain't  them  darlin's  ?  'N'  look  at  the  mustard — 'd  ye  ever 
see  it  spread  's  thick  in  all  yer  life  'fore  ?  If  them  ain't 
immense  eatin',  now,  ye  may  call  me  a  buzzard  I  " 

Mrs.  Pugsley  seemed  to  have  recurred  by  intuition  to 
the  ancient  theory  of  Protagoras,  that  on  every  subject 
contrary  affirmations  may  be  maintained. 

"  I've  allussaid  as  too  much  mustard  ain't  good  fer  the 
lungs  'n'  liver,"  she  declared,  drawing  the  sandwiches 
toward  her  with  a  sort  of  protesting  acquiescence.  Then, 
in  her  deposed  empress  tones  :  "  Not  'tl  have  any  call  to 
complain,  'n'  not 't  I'm  complainin',  but  I'd  like  fer  folks 
to  know  what  they're  givin'  me  'n'  how  it  '11  prob'ly  act 
on  my  insides." 


96  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"  Oh,  it  won't  hurt  ye,"  encouraged  Maria. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  waved  her  moist  hand  with  the  air  of  a 
mother  disowning  her  daughter  on  the  stage. 

"  Ye  never  was  half  a  Swipes,  nohow,"  she  said. 
"Not  but  what  ye're  good  to  me,  'n'  all  that;  but  it's 
like  they  was  suthin'  atween  us  't  won't  let  ye  onder- 
stan'. " 

She  shook  her  head  sadly  and  transferred  her  reproach 
ful  gaze  to  the  sandwiches. 

"  Not 't  I  have  any  call  to  think  't  anybody  keers  'bout 
the  state  o'  my  lungs  'n'  liver  'nough  to  bender  me  from 
swollerin'  what 's  likely  to  hurt  'em,"  she  said,  returning 
to  a  physiological  contemplation  of  thesubject.  "'T  ain't 
that.  The  sooner  my  lungs  'n'  liver  is  gone  'n'  is  no 
more,  the  better  it'll  be  fer  all  ;  'n'  mebbe  that's  the  idee 
ye  have  in  mind  in  forcin'  'em  down  me.  I'll  eat  the  sand- 
witchers  'n'  joyful,  Mr.  Bling,  hopin'  they  '11  red  the  world 
o'  me."  She  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  sleeve  and  then  lay 
back  among  the  blankets  and  fell  to  eating. 

Maria  set  about  getting  dinner  at  once.  The  stove  was 
an  increasing  wonder  to  her.  She  found  it  a  difficult  feat 
to  lift  the  stove-lids  on  the  lifter  without  letting  them  fall  ; 
the  blaze  shining  through  the  draught  in  front  delighted 
her  ;  the  roar  in  the  pipe  was  music,  and  the  damper  had 
to  be  adjusted  continually  to  regulate  the  blaze  exactly  to 
her  liking.  That  stove  suggested  unlimited  culinary  expe 
riences  ;  it  involved  ever  widening  relations,  ever  new 
combinations,  like  the  uses  of  scientific  study.  She  felt 
as  if  it  were  destined  to  draw  out  all  her  latent  capabilities 
— as  if  she  were  becoming  educated  by  existing  in  its  prox 
imity. 

"  I  reckon  stoves  is  common  'nough,"  she  remarked, 
poking  the  ashes  away  from  the  draught  in  front,  "  but 
we've  had  to  bile  our  kittle  over  a  out-door  fire  'most  ever 
sence  I  can  'member.  Ain't  it  neat,  though,  to  see  how 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAlf.  97 

the  smoke  all  goes  up  the  pipe  'n'  not  even  a  whiff  into  a 
feller's  eyes  ?  I'd  no  idee  a  stove  was  so  handy." 

"  Ye  ain't  opened  all  the  packages  yit,"  said  Billy. 

"  Why,  sure  'nough,"  answered  the  girl.  "  Seems  like 
when  ma  gits  suthin'  't  she  likes,  the  rest  o'  us  orter  be 
satisfied  ;  'n'  that  stove  is  a  dumplin',  'n'  no  mistake." 
She  cast  a  backward  admiring  glance  at  it  as  she  moved 
toward  the  table.  "  I  could  set  by  the  hour  and  watch 
it." 

•'Well  !"  said  Maud  Eliza,  somewhat  sharply,  "ye 
may  set  by  the  hour  an  watch  it  if  ye  like  when  dinner  's 
over,  but  jes'  now  I  want  to  say  my  insides  is  howlin'  fer 
grub  !  " 

"Well, "said  Maria,  good-naturedly,  "we'll  see  what 
we've  got,  then  !  Lor!  a  chunk  o'  bacon  't  smells  like  it 
had  been  dropped  straight  from  Paradise.  That  makes 
my  stummick  begin  to  talk,  too.  'N'  here's  some  crack 
ers  'n'  coffee ;  'n'  what's  this  ?  Butter  ?  Good  Lord  1 
Look  at  that,  ma  !  Butter  to  eat  onto  our  crackers,  'stid 
o'  bacon  gravy  !  We  ain't  had  no  butter  fer  months 
afore,  'n'  I  vow  I'd  'most  fergot  what  'twas  like.  Yes, 
'n'  pertaters  ;  'n'  'ere's  a  can  o'  peaches — them  San  Jose 
kind,  't  melt  in  yer  mouth  'n'  slip  down  afore  ye  want  'em 
to.  Well,  well !  "  She  stepped  back  and  regarded  Billy 
with  a  smile  of  cordial  thanks.  "  Won't  we  have  a  sure- 
'nough  feast  now  ?  'N'  all  o'  yer  gettin',  too  !  Mebbe 
we'll  have  a  chance  to  do  suthin'  friendly  fer  you  some 
day,  'n'  we  won't  fergit  this  when  our  time  comes  !  " 

It  was  not  a  conventional  scene  between  lovers,  but  it 
was  a  moment  of  peculiar  sweetness  to  Billy.  The  pure 
spontaneity  of  her  gratitude  refreshed  him,  but  he  could 
not  help  feeling  embarrassed  by  the  thought  that  it  was 
necessary  for  her  to  be  grateful  to  him  for  anything.  He 
wondered  if  she  was  not  a  little  embarrassed,  too ;  she 
did  not  seem  so,  but  he  had  heard  that  women  were  able 

7 


98  IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

to  hide  such  emotions.  He  did  not  like  the  thought  that 
she  might  feel  under  obligations  to  him  ;  there  is  always 
an  element  of  discomfort  in  such  a  relation.  He  could 
not  meet  her  eyes  as  he  would'  like  to  have  done.  To 
cover  his  confusion  he  turned  away  and  commenced 
fumbling  among  the  contents  of  a  little  deal  cupboard 
against  the  wall.  Presently  he  produced  a  skillet  from 
this  hiding-place  and  set  it  on  the  stove-hearth. 

" It'll  want  dustin'  out  a  little,  I  reckon,"  he  said.  '  "It 
ain't  been  used  for  ever  so  long.  It's  what  I  had  to  cook 
bacon  in  when  I  lived  'ere  by  myself.  I  ain't  used  it 
more  'n  two  or  three  times  sence  I  moved  up  in  the  hills, 
when  I  happened  to  be  stayin'  in  camp  off  'n'  on.  They's 
fat  'nough  in  the  bacon  to  cook  itself,  ain't  they?  I 
thought  I  picked  out  a  piece  't  was  fat  'nough  fer  that." 

"Oh,  yes/'  answered  Maria.  "They's  fat  'nough — 
plenty,  plenty  !  Don't  it  slice  off  beautiful  ?  'N'  ain't 
them  streaks  o'  lean  in  it  good  fer  sore  eyes  ?  D'ye  ever 
hear  how  the  Mexicans  feed  their  pigs  every  other  day, 
so  's  to  make  fust  a  streak  o'  fat  'n'  then  a  streak  o'  lean  ? 
Lor',  what  a  feast  it  is,  to  be  sure  !  " 

"I  wish  't  we  had  some  flour  to  roll  the  slices  in,  don't 
you  ?  I  allus  like  bacon  best  't 's  rolled  in  flour  afore  it's 
fried.  It  makes  it  tenderer. " 

"I  do'  know  's  I  ever  et  it  that  way,"  answered  the 
girl.  "I  never  heerd  o'  it.  'N'  we  ain't  got  no  flour, 
nohow." 

"No  flour,  nuther?"  echoed  Billy.  "Why,  what  ye 
been  livin'  on  ? " 

"Nothin',  mos'ly,"  was  the  grim  answer.  "  Oh,  we're 
capable  o'  that,"  she  added,  lifting  her  eyes  to  his  face  as 
the  assurance  of  his  pity  dawned  upon  her  mind.  "We're 
used  to  it." 

"Well,"  said  Billy  with  decision,  "all  I  got  to  say  is, 
ye  ortn't  to  be  used  to  it,  'n'  I'm  goin'  to  fetch  a  sack  o' 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  99 

flour  aroun'  this  very  afternoon,  or  have  one  sent.  A 
feller  must  eat  if  he's  goin'  to  live.  It  won't  matter  if  we 
don't  have  none  fer  the  bacon  this  time.  Bacon  's  good 
anyhow  ye  fix  it,  ain't  it,  now?  I  swear,"  he  added, 
with  a  laugh  into  which  a  note  of  dissatisfaction  crept  in 
spite  of  him  as  he  thought  of  their  forlorn  condition,  "  ye 
folks  was  purty  well  cleaned  out  o'  eatin'  utensils." 

"\es,  we  was  purty  well  cleaned  out  o'  eatin'  uten 
sils,  "she  replied,  without  hesitation.  "  We've  been  short 
fer  a  week  now,  'n'  the  Lord  only  knows  how  we'd 
a-come  out  o'  it  if  ye  hadn't  run  onto  us  in  that  onex- 
pected  way.  If  ye'll  send  us  the  flour  I'll  see  to  it  that 
it's  paid  back  when  dad  gits  to  work." 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  answered  Billy,  indifferently. 

Maria  deposited  the  thin  slices  of  fat  in  the  skillet,  and 
then  turned  to  her  mother,  who  was  eating  sandwiches 
after  the  manner  of  the  sailor's  wife  who  had  chestnuts  in 
her  lap,  "and  munched,  and  munched,  and  munched." 

"Ye  feel  better  now,"  said  the  girl,  measuring  some 
coffee  in  her  hand  and  throwing  it  into  the  simmering 
pot.  "Ye  look  like  ye'd  took  a  new  lease  o'  life  a'ready. 
No  more  feelin'  like  a  dead  hoss  dragged  over  a  mountain 
trail,  ma !  No  more  groanin'  'n'  sighin',  eh,  ma  ?  La  ! 
only  think,  a  good  dry  ruff  'n'  three  hull  rooms  to  our 
selves — why,  it's  princely,  that's  what  'tis  !  Run  out  into 
the  woodshed,  quick,  MaudElizy,'n'  fetch 'nother  armful  o' 
wood  !  Lor',  what  changes  they  is  in  life  !  Only  think 
o'  this  'n'  then  how  we  was  fixed  this  mornin' !  " 

"Yes,  it's  princely,"  replied  Mrs.  Pugsley,  with  a 
dreary  shake  of  her  head  and  the  conscious  look  of  one 
who  is  descending  to  an  untimely  grave.  "I  know  it's 
princely,  V  ain't  I  proud  'n'  grateful  'n'' happy  ?  But  why 
couldn't  it  a-come  sooner?  The  Lord  don't  treat  me 
right,  nohow;  He  ain't  fair — He  never  was.  But  I 
don't  complain.  It's  more  like  the  Swipeses  'n  what  I 


100  tN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

ever  'spected  to  be  agin.  I  don't  complain."  And  she 
groaned. 

"Oh,  ye'll  be  all  right  to-morrer,"  said  Maria,  cheer 
fully.  "Only  think  o'  sleepin'  under  a  dry  ruff  wunst 
more — why  it's  like  ole  times  up  to  Nevady  City,  V  ye 
allus  said  that  was  'zackly  like  the  Swipses.  Don't  that 
bacon  smell  good,  though  ?  M-m-my  !  " 

Mrs.  Pugsley  finished  her  third  sandwich  and  stretched 
herself  out  on  her  blankets,  looking  very  weak  and 
watery. 

"Well,  I  swear!"  cried  Billy,  suddenly,  springing  to 
ward  the  door.  "If  there  ain't  Jim  Hulse  after  his 
hosses  !  Ain't  I  a  good 'un  to  fergit 'em  like  that?  He 
must  a-had  to  foller  me  all  aroun'  the  camp  to  find  'em. 
'Fore  Jack,  I'm  ruther  'shamed  o'  that ! '' 

' '  Oh,  I  reckon  it  won't  hurt  yer  Jim  Hulse  to  stretch 
his  legs  a  little,"  answered  Maria,  carelessly,  not  looking 
up  from  the  sputtering  bacon  which  she  was  poking  with 
a  fork. 

Billy  heard  her,  but  did  not  wait  to  answer.  He  strode 
rapidly  toward  the  gate,  where  a  man  stood  as  if  expect 
ing  him. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

MARIA  came  to  the  door  in  an  interval  of  her  cooking  to 
get  a  breath  of  air  and  a  glimpse  of  the  man  who  "read 
boo\s"  and  had  the  reputation  of  a  quondam  murderer. 

"He  ain't  a  bit  hansim/'  was  her  first  thought.  And 
then,  "I  wonder  what  he  could  reely  a-done.  He  looks 
like  he  hated  hisself  'n'  everybody." 

She  could  not  take  her  eyes  off  him. 

"Whatever  he's  done/'  she  thought,  with  an  inward 
thrill,  like  the  flutter  of  wings  in  a  lone  thicket,  "he's 
sorry  fer  it  now.  Nobody  could  have  that  look  'n'  not 
be  repentant.  He  don't  look  ezackly  good,  but  he  looks 
lonesome  'n' — 'n'  wonderful." 

She  almost  wished,  with  a  little  rush  of  warmth  through 
her  heart,  that  she  knew  him  and  could  befriend  him  and 
make  him  forget  how  lonesome  the  world  was.  For  he 
seemed  lost  in  this  big,  bare  landscape — lost  and  helpless 
and  sorrowful.  And  then  she  fell  to  wondering  what  in 
the  world  she  could  find  to  say  if  by  chance  she  were 
obliged  to  speak  to  him.  She  couldn't  imagine  anything 
he  would  care  to  hear  her  talk  about.  He  seemed  such 
a  poor  listener  when  Billy  talked.  But,  of  course,  Billy 
was  not  very  interesting. 

"I  reckon  I  better  keep  away  from  'im,"  she  thought, 
and  the  warm  feeling  died  out  and  left  a  queer  little  chill 
in  its  place.  "They  ain't  no  tellin'  what  he  might  do  if 
he  was  stirred  up." 

Presently  the  horses  were  unharnessed,  and  Hulse 
turned  and  spoke  in  a  low  tone  to  Billy.  Maria  could 
not  hear  what  he  said,  but  she  noticed  his  unintentional 


102  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

tone  of  patronage,  which  somehow  seemed  just,  and  not 
to  be  resented.  The  tone  was  not  unfriendly  ;  it  was 
supremely  indifferent,  yet  pervaded  by  the  indescribable 
accent  of  one  who  speaks  across  a  social  gulf.  Billy  did 
not  notice — perhaps  he  tacitly  admitted  the  other's  superi 
ority. 

"He  is  a  queer  man,"  she  said,  interested  and  awed. 
"  What  could  he  a-done,  I  wonder?  " 

In  her  unusual  concentration  of  thought  she  had 
spoken  aloud,  and  the  sound  of  her  own  voice  startled 
her.  It  startled  Maud  Eliza,  too,  who  was  thrumming 
against  the  window-sill. 

"Seems  like  all  the  men's  queer  in  this  country/' 
tittered  the  girl.  "  I  ain't  seen  one  yit  't  /  'd  have."  - 

"Oh,  shet  up  !"  cried  Maria,  with  sudden  irritation. 

Maud  Eliza  made  up  a  face  and  commenced  to  sing 
provokingly  to  the  accompaniment  of  her  rapid  tattoo  on 
the  window-ledge : 

"  Granny,  will  yer  dog  bite,  dog  bite,  dog  bite? 
Granny,  will  yer  dog  bite  ? 
No,  child,  no  !  " 

But  for  a  wonder  Maria  turned  her  back,  resolved  not 
to  hear.  She  wanted  to  improve  all  the  time  while  Hulse 
was  there  in  trying  to  make  him  out.  She  wondered 
what  there  was  in  him  that  insisted  itself  on  her  so. 
Yes,  she  could  imagine  that  he  had  murdered  some  one, 
she  could  even  fancy  the  victim's  sensations  while  look 
ing  up  into  those  burning  eyes. 

While  she  mused  thus  in  her  rapid  way,  he  suddenly 
raised  his  eyes  and  looked  her  full  in  the  face.  She 
could  not  meet  his  gaze — it  cowed  and  frightened  her, 
and  she  shrank  back  as  if  from  a  draught  of  stifling  air. 
The  eyes  with  the  smothered  fire  in  them  rested  on  her 
only  an  instant — indeed,  she  was  not  sure  that  he  saw 
her  at  all.  He  seemed  to  look  through  and  beyond  her 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VlLAtf.  103 

at  something  afar  off ;  it  was  a  look  so  intent  and  wide- 
reaching,  so  regardless  of  adjacent  objects  that  she  felt  a 
desire  to  turn  and  discover  the  object  which  had  so  fixed 
his  regard.  But  all  at  once  he  turned  his  back  on  her 
and  said  something  in  a  low  tone  to  Billy. 

In  another  moment  he  mounted  one  of  the  horses,  and 
then  his  face  was  toward  her  again.  She  was  glad  that 
Billy  was  not  looking  in  her  direction,  and  could  not  see 
the  nush  that  leaped  to  her  forehead  and  made  her  feel 
helpless  and  foolish.  Hulse  could  not  help  noticing  her 
this  time,  standing  as  she  was  in  his  direct  line  of  vision 
— must  observe  that  her  dress  was  soiled  and  torn,  that 
her  hair  was  uncombed,  her  shoes  down  at  heel,  and, 
worse  than  all,  that  the  hot  blood  was  flaming  in  her 
face — a  phenomenon  which  he  would  doubtless  construe 
into  a  shamefaced  confession  of  untidiness — possibly  into 
an  admission  of  fear  of  his  censure.  The  thought  an 
gered  her  strangely  ;  she  could  not  bear  the  idea  that  he 
should  pass  judgment  on  her  in  that  lordly  way.  Billy 
might  put  up  with  such  condescension  if  he  ch'ose,  but 
she  never  would.  What  right  had  he  to  judge  her  ?  Was 
not  she  her  own  mistress  ?  She  would  have  none  of  his 
patronage  and  fine  airs.  His  criticism  was  a  menace  to 
her  independence;  her  strong  self-love  shrank  from  his 
mysterious  interference  as  her  healthy  body  shrank  from 
the  prospect  of  illness. 

In  a  sudden  paroxysm  of  rage  she  entered  the  house 
and  slammed  the  door  behind  her,  to  let  him  know  once 
for  all  how  much  she  cared  for  his  opinion.  She  reck 
oned  she  had  a  right  to  dress  as  she  chose,  for  all  of  him, 
or  not  dress  at  all,  if  it  suited  her  better.  He  hadn't 
bought  her  clothes  for  her ;  he  had  nothing  to  say  about 
how  often  she  should  wash  them.  She  longed  to  shout 
her  derision  and  defiance  of  him,  to  stand  somewhere  in 
full  view  and  say  nasty  things  about  his  clothes,  which, 


104  *N  THE  VALLEY  OF 

when  all  was  said,  were  no  cleaner  nor  better  than  her 
own.  His  overalls  were  all  over  mud  at  that  minute,  and 
she  would  like  to  tell  him  of  it,  only  she  could  not  picture 
him  caring  for  such  spitefulness  from  anybody,  much  less 
from  her.  He  would  sit  there  just  as  calm  as  ever  and 
look  superior  and  say  nothing  back.  Well,  then,  she 
would  say,  nothing,  either;  but  she  wished  she  had  made 
her  most  hideous  face  at  him  before  she  slammed  the 
door — the  face  she  scared  intrusive  little  boys  with  when 
they  strayed  too  near  the  wagon.  That  face  was  Maria's 
masterpiece.  It  was  made  by  stretching  her  mouth  as 
far  as  possible  with  her  thumbs  and  drawing  down  her 
lower  eyelids  with  her  forefingers,  till  nothing  but  the 
red  and  white  showed  ;  and  to  this  fiendish  appearance 
she  added  a  deathly  horror  by  grating  her  teeth  together 
or  running  out  her  tongue  and  groaning.  She  wished 
she  had  done  that  to  Hulse  to  express  her  contempt  for 
him. 

While  these  thoughts  flashed  through  her  mind,  she 
was  moving  toward  the  window,  as  if  drawn  by  some 
power  beyond  herself,  and  now,  with  an  anxiety  which 
she  would  have  scorned  in  another,  she  was  peering  out 
to  discover  how  much  Hulse  was  annoyed  and  discon 
certed  by  her  violent  declaration  of  independence.  She 
found  him  seated  precisely  as  she  had  last  seen  him,  with 
his  eyes  directed  toward  the  doorway  in  that  absent, 
vision-seeing  manner,  evidently  unconscious  of  her  having 
left  the  spot  or  having  been  there.  Her  anger  had  been 
all  for  nothing,  then, — he  had  not  even  seen  her  !  Could 
it  be  possible  ? — he  had  been  looking  directly  toward  her 
when  she  shut  the  door.  And  yet  there  could  be  no 
doubt  about  it — he  had  not  seen  her  at  all.  She  believed 
that  he  was  capable  of  it,  he  was  capable  of  anything  ; 
she  was  certain  now  that  he  had  murdered  cart-loads  of 
men.  She  could  have  cried  with  vexation  and  rage.  To 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  tiA  VI LAI}.  jog 

her  the  passive  contempt  of  indifference  was  hardly  less 
bitter  than  the  active  contempt  of  criticism. 

It  is  a  dark  cavity  that  contains  the  human  brain  ;  and 
perhaps  that  is  why  our  good  and  evil  impulses  so  often 
get  mixed  and  huddled  together  in  frightened  groups  of 
contradictions.  Before  resuming  her  cooking,  Maria — all 
the  time  bitterly  resentful  of  this  stranger  who  had  some 
how  interfered  with  her  spiritual  life — laced  her  shoes 
more  carefully  than  she  had  done  for  a  month  before, 
and  smoothed  her  hair  a  little  ;  then  looking  down  at  her 
dress,  she  resolved  that  before  another  day  passed  that 
garment  should  be  washed,  and  ironed,  and  mended,  if 
the  deed  was  the  last  of  her  life.  She  wasn't  going  to 
have  people  looking  down  on  her  if  a  little  soap  and 
water  could  prevent  it — though  where  the  soap  was  to 
come  from  was  an  unsolved  mystery. 

And  the  next  moment  she  wheeled  around  completely, 
vowing  that  she  would  daub  herself  from  head  to  foot 
with  dirt  and  grease  and  pass  that  Jim  Hulse  on  the 
street,  wagging  her  head  and  running  out  her  .tongue  at 
him.  Yes,  that  is  what  she  would  do.  Who  was  he, 
she  would  like  to  know,  that  he  should  turn  up  his  nose 
at  her  as  if  she  was  no  better  than  the  sidewalk  for  him  to 
run  over  ?  Was  he  any  better  than  she  ?  At  any  rate,  she 
hadn't  murdered  cart-loads  of  men,  women,  and  children. 

But,  after  all,  he  had  not  turned  up  his  nose  at  her ;  he 
had  not  even  seen  her.  And  she  had  been  a  fool  to  slam 
the  door  in  his  face  ;  he  would  not  have  cared  even  had 
he  happened  to  notice.  And  just  at  this  point  a  drop  of 
fat  from  the  frying  bacon  must  have  sputtered  into  Maria's 
face,  for  she  wiped  her  eyes  on  her  apron  and  rubbed 
them  particularly  hard.  Could  she  have  analyzed  her 
feelings,  she  might  have  discovered  that  she  was  less 
angry  with  this  enigmatic  stranger  than  with  herself  for 
appearing  before  him  in  such  shabby  array. 


1 06  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

Billy  stayed  to  dinner,  and  was  as  gay  as  possible,  but 
his  appetite  was  not  good.  (Has  the  reader  noticed  the 
.  mysterious  effect  which  love  has  on  digestion?)  He  en 
joyed  seeing  the  others  eat,  however,  and  cracked  jokes 
in  a  way  that  was  alarming.  Mrs.  Pugsley  rose  to  the 
occasion  by  seeing  the  company  seated  around  the  table 
on  empty  candle  boxes  before  taking  her  own  place,  her 
wildly  regal  manner  suggesting  a  histrionic  attempt  at  an 
Eastern  empress  collecting  her  troops.  She  ate  heartily, 
in  spite  of  her  three  formidable  sandwiches,  and  evi 
dently  enjoyed  her  dinner,  though  she  managed  to  im 
press  Billy  with  the  idea  that  hearty  eating  was  one 
phase  of  her  polymorphous  misery. 

Maria  ate  even  less  than  Billy,  and  she  seemed  absent- 
minded,  but  the  young  man  was  not  disturbed  by  that. 
At  table  she  addressed  him  only  once  of  her  own  accord, 
and  that  was  to  inquire  whether  Hulse — she  called  him 
"that  Hulse" — objected  to  the  use  to  which  his  horses 
had  been  put  that  morning.  On  being  answered  in  the 
negative,  she  looked  relieved,  as  if  she  had  half  expected 
the  owner  of  the  animals  to  entertain  prejudices  against 
the  promiscuous  transportation  of  unfortunate  and  slat 
ternly  females  around  the  country. 

The  fact  was,  she  was  not  at  all  herself.  A  sense  of 
shame  oppressed  her  ;  she  kept  trying  to  understand  why 
she  cared  so  much  a*bout  what  had  happened.  She  had 
studied  her  own  mind  so  little  all  her  life  long  that  an 
attempt  at  introspection  at  this  late  day  met  with  opaque 
resistances  as  impassable  as  if  she  had  been  trying  to 
pass,  ghost-like,  through  an  unopened  door. 

She  was  glad  when  the  meal  was  over,  glad  when  her 
mother  spread  herself  out  on  the  blankets  once  more  and 
prepared  to  go  to  sleep,  glad  when  her  father  and  Billy 
went  out  together  to  look  around  the  yard.  She  would 
not  let  Maud  Eliza  do  the  dishes,  though  that  hilarious 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


107 


damsel  offered ;  she  wanted  to  do  them  herself.  A  bit  of 
familiar  work  gave  her,  as  it  were,  a  grip  on  the  reality 
of  things.  After  the  dishes  were  done  she  went  out  and 
sat  down  alone  on  the  veranda  steps,  still  thinking  ;  and 
before  she  knew  it  the  cottonwoods,  at  which  she  was 
looking  fixedly,  had  grown  dim  as  spiders'  webs  tangled 
in  the  air,  the  river  had  diminished  to  a  dotted  line  and  a 
dull  sound,  and  she  could  not  see  the  mountains  at  all ; 
and  then  with  a  start  she  became  aware  that  her  eyes 
were  brimming  over  with  tears.  She  wiped  them  away 
on  her  apron — she  wondered  what  Hulse  would  think  if 
he  saw  how  soiled  that  apron  was — and  winked  so  fast 
and  hard  that  the  tears  could  not  come  again  ;  and  pres 
ently  it  entered  her  mind  that  if  she  could  have  appeared 
at  the  door  in  a  garnet  cashmere  dress  and  long  gold  ear 
rings — in  her  fondest  imaginings  Maria  had  sometimes 
pictured  herself  in  that  garnet  cashmere,  with  a  sjlk  panel 
of  the  same  shade — her  impressions  of  "that  Hulse" 
would  have  been  much  pleasanter.  Perhaps  he  would 
have  looked  at  her  approvingly  and  smiled  ;  but  no,  she 
could  not  imagine  him  smiling.  But  it  would  have  been 
something  to  know  that  she  had  no  reason  to  be  ashamed 
of  herself. 

The  polite  reader  who  has  studied  women  and  the  doc 
trines  of  Leibnitz  may  find  in  Maria  a  partial  confirm 
ation  of  the  philosopher's  theory  of  the  sameness  of 
indiscernibles. 


108  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAff. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  light  of  love  draws  many  virtuous  plants  from  the 
soil  on  which  it  falls.  Hitherto  Billy  Bling  had  never 
experienced  any  longing  for  an  ideal  personal  excellence, 
but  all  at  once  he  wished  with  the  earnestness  of  his 
whole  soul  that  he  were  a  better  man  and  more  worthy 
of  the  woman  whom  this  day  had  brought  into  his  life. 
Such  dissatisfaction  is  an  assurance  of  a  changed  future. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  when  he  bade  Maria  good 
bye  on  the  porch,  promising,  in  answer  to  her  iterated 
invitation — for  his  "departure  roused  her  from  her  absent- 
mindedness  and  awakened  in  her  a  knowledge  of  what 
she  owed  to  his  kindness — that  he  would  drop  in  often 
and  be  sociable.  The  idea  of  dropping  in  often  and 
being  sociable  filled  his  mind  with  a  series  of  homelike 
pictures  of  himself  and  her  together  in  the  front  room  of 
the  little  house,  while  the  rest  of  the  family  were  con 
veniently  disposed  of  in  the  vague  background  till  their 
presence  was  required  at  table  or  some  other  family  rite. 
He  went  around  to  one  of  the  stores  and  ordered  a  new 
supply  of  groceries  to  be  sent  to  the  cabin  next  day- 
Maria  had  assured  him  that  she  had  enough  already  to 
last  a  week,  but  no  other  possible  attention  presented 
itself  to  his  mind — and  then  started  for  home.  He 
passed  up  the  gentle  slope  between  the  river  and  the 
foothills,  smiling  as  he  thought  of  all  the  pleasant  things 
that  had  happened  to  him  during  the  day.  He  was  very 
glad  that  Hulse  had  wanted  him  to  go  for  the  horses — • 
very  glad  he  had  been  idle  at  the  moment  and  able  to  go. 
How  queer  it  was  to  think  of  what  he  would  have  missed 


TN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  109 

had  he  worked  that  day  as  usual  !  Billy's  nature  was 
essentially  a  poetical  one,  though  he  was  unaware  of  the 
fact,  and  he  liked  to  imagine  the  consequences  attending 
actions  which  had  never  taken  place.  He  could  hardly 
imagine  himself  ignorant  of  Maria's  coming,  even  if  he 
had  stayed  at  home.  Something  would  have  told  him — 
some  influence  in  the  air  would  have  announced  it. 
And  it  was  so  queer — he  could  not  recover  from  the 
wonder  of  it — that  he  had  never  thought  of  her  before, 
never  dreamed  of  her,  never  longed  for  her — never,  before 
to-day.  And  yet  more  marvellous  was  the  apparent  con 
tradiction  that  she  did  not  seem  a  stranger  to  him,  that 
her  voice*  was  familiar,  that  her  face  suggested  a  dim, 
haunting  memory,  as  a  gratified  desire  suggests  the  un- 
gratified  longing.  It  was  all  strange,  and  beautiful,  and 
unreal. 

After  leaving  the  valley  his  path  lay  through  the  cool, 
still  gulches.  There  it  was  almost  dark  ;  the  sun  had 
sunk  behind  the  high  black  walls,  though  out  in  the 
valley  the  day  still  shone.  Here  and  there,  far  above 
him,  bits  of  purple  or  saffron-colored  rock  thrilled  warmly 
under  the  touch  of  a  belated  sunbeam,  looking  like  points 
of  flame  above  the  encroaching  shadows.  The  trail 
ascended  for  some  time  along  the  steep  grade  of  a  small 
stream — a  stream  whose  lips  seemed  shaped  only  for 
laughter,  like  a  healthy  child's.  A  sudden  narrowing  of 
the  little  canon,  then  a  sharp  turn  to  the  left,  brought  him 
face  to  face  with  a  waterfall  leaping  down  a  wall  of 
white  rocks  and  illuminated  dazzlingly  by  a  flash  of  sun 
shine  which  streamed  through  a  small  lateral  gorge 
facing  the  west.  Seen  from  the  gloom  from  which  Billy 
approached,  the  high  white  waterfall,  swaying  and  flut 
tering  among  the  shadows,  looked  like  a  restless,  sheeted 
ghost.  At  a  nearer  view  the  apparition  lost  its  ghostly 
aspect,  and  the  gleam  on  the  white  rocks  and  the  waver- 


HO  IN  THE   V 'ALLEY  OF  HA  VILA H. 

ing  water  changed  to  such  a  light  as  Eastern  travellers 
say  flashes  from  the  wings  of  a  flock  of  storks  stirring 
and  mounting  upward  among  the  sunbeams.  Near  the 
cabin  stood  an  evergreen  oak.  The  sunshine  fell  upon  it 
also,  so  that  the  late-clinging  waxen  berries  of  the  mistle 
toe  were  still  visible  among  its  branches.  The  wind 
kissed  the  heavy  leaves  into  slow  motion  and  whispered 
all  sorts  of  aerial  secrets.  Winds  are  the  souls  of  dead 
poets ;  they  breathe  upon  us  fully  the  music  of  distant 
worlds,  which  living  poets  catch  and  repeat  brokenly. 

Billy  neither  saw  nor  heard  anything.  For  all  he 
noticed  on  the  way  to  his  cabin,  he  might  as  well  have 
been  transported  to  the  spot  in  his  sleep.  He  became 
conscious  of  the  earth's  existence  and  his  own  after  he 
had  been  standing  for  some  time  in  front  of  the  waterfall 
and  gazing  down  toward  the  west.  He  had  lived  a  long 
life  of  adventure  since  leaving  the  place  ;  events  had 
been  heaping  upon  him  ;  he  had  experienced  everything 
that  was  worth  experiencing  in  life. 

He  saw  things  in  new  forms  and  combinations.  It 
was  like  beginning  life  all  over  again,  and  how  pleasant 
that  was  !  Was  this  the  same  grim  old  earth  he  had 
been  plodding  around  on  all  these  years — were  these  the 
old  familiar,  monotonous  surroundings  ? 

The  sun  was  low  on  the  mountain-tops  ;  like  a  tired 
king,  oppressed  with  his  own  glory,  he  sank  to  rest  on 
his  high  bed.  Billy  sat  down  under  the  oak  and  gazed 
out  at  the  evening  changes  as  if  watching  the  sun  set  for 
the  first  time.  The  slant  rays  from  behind  a  far-off  peak 
radiated  like  a  quiver  of  arrows  on  an  Indian's  broad 
shoulder  ;  the  west  was  a  sea-green  expanse  of  sky  with 
a  fringe  of  fire.  Then  the  light  faded — how  soon  it 
always  fades  !  The  shadows  are  so  eager  to  take  its 
place.  Suddenly  a  south  wind  stirred  along  the  sky  and 
the  white  star-lilies  burst  into  blossom.  So  the  night  came. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i  t  T 

Billy  gazed  long,  and  yet  he  had  something  better  to 
think  of  than  the  stars  or  the  sunset.  Maria  had  laid  her 
hand  in  his  at  parting.  What  was  there  to  think  of  in  all 
the  world  but  that  ?  And  she  had  smiled  and  asked  him 
to  come  often.  Was  there  a  Paradise  beyond  such  hap 
piness?  He  was  delirious  with  hope;  he  could  think  of 
nothing  distinctly  but  Maria  and  the  future.  She  had 
been  in  the  world  all  these  years  and  he  had  not  known 
it.  He  repeated  that  idea  constantly,  foolishly — he  sent 
his  thoughts  again  and  again  over  his  little  world  of 
knowledge,  trying  vainly  to  find  some  analogy  to  this 
solemn,  happy  experience.  Ah,  that  never-to-be-for 
gotten  day  of  youth,  when  love  puts  out  to  sea  with 
sweet  trust  in  favoring  winds  !  Storm  and  shipwreck 
may  follow,  but  the  day  has  been  lived,  and  death  itself 
can  not  obliterate  it  from  God's  record  of  earthly  happi 
ness  and  good. 

Billy  rose  from  his  seat  under  the  oak  tree  and  paced  up 
and  down  the  path  before  his  cabin  door,  adjusting  him 
self  to  this  new-found  ecstasy.  Occasionally  he  paused 
to  gaze  up  into  the  clear  sky,  to  listen  to  the  music  of  the 
pines  and  the  waterfall,  or  watch  the  ripples  at  his  feet  as 
they  cast  up  the  white,  drowned  stars  from  their  depths. 
Maria  was  come  !  The  winds  repeated  it,  the  waters  sang 
it,  the  night  was  full  of  the  thought.  Nature,  with  whom 
Billy  had  lived  face  to  face  for  years,  was  his  friend  and 
partook  of  his  joy.  He  was  sure  the  trees  were  glad  with 
him,  that  the  wind  and  water  sympathized.  How  com 
plete  the  world  seemed,  and  yet  how  prophetic  of  some 
thing  better  than  mere  completeness  !  It  was  as  if,  while 
listening  to  sweet  music,  he  were  straining  above  and 
beyond  it  toward  some  faint,  inarticulate  melody  full  of 
a  diviner  meaning  than  the  earthly,  audible  tones. 

His  future  took  more  definite  shape,  like,  a  city  viewed 
from  a  hill.  In  the  thought  of  Maria,  all  good  seemed 


112  IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

possible.  She  was  a  reminder  of  his  better,  half-forgotten 
past ;  she  necessitated  a  renewal  of  the  best  part  of  him. 
A  desire  to  be  something  better  for  her  sake, — something 
that  she  could  look  upon  with  love  and  generous  praise, 
overpowered  him  like  a  slow-swelling  surge  that  bears  all 
before  it.  The  discords  of  his  life  melted  away,  absorbed 
like  the  noises  of  the  street  in  a  sudden  full  peal  of  church 
bells  that  summon  the  soul  to  prayer.  He  felt  for  the  first 
time  that  it  is  a  good  thing  to  live,  that  life  means  some 
thing  more  than  breathing  and  working,  or  even  playing  ; 
that  it  means  a  daily  renewal  of  kindly  human  deeds  and 
affections,  of  living  thoughts  and  acts  of  self-forgetfulness. 
A  vision  of  the  world,  as  seen  through  the  medium  of  his 
own  experience  and  observation,  passed  before  him  and 
filled  him  with  compassion  for  his  kind — a  vision  of  human 
beings  who  crawl  out  of  the  dust,  wallow  in  the  dust  a 
while,  and  then  return  to  dust  again  ;  of  tear-white  faces 
of  men  and  women  who  struggle  and  strive  and  fail  and 
fill  the  world  with  the  discords  of  selfishness.  How 
miserable  to-night  seemed  all  human  lives  except  such  as 
had  found  out  the  uses  of  earnest,  unselfish  love  !  Some 
thing  of  the  real  holiness  of  life,  of  God's  meaning  in  man, 
for  the  moment  likened  the  poor  miner  to  the  seer. 

A  little  later,  in  the  calmness  of  retrospection,  Billy 
thought  of  his  past  with  thankfulness  that  Maria  knew 
nothing  of  it.  True,  she  had  probably  seen  nothing 
better  in  the  lives  of  the  men  around  her,  but  that  fact 
neither  signified  that  she  had  deserved  such  associates 
nor  that  she  ought  to  continue  in  their  company.  She 
was  good  herself — her  frank  independence,  her  tenderness 
for  her  mother,  her  hearty,  joyous  laugh,  like  a  boy's,  her 
very  tyranny  over  her  father,  left  him  in  no  doubt  about, 
that,  and  in  common  justice  she  ought  to  associate  with 
people  as  good  as-  herself.  Billy,  like  the  average  lover, 
was  capable  of  attaching  all  abstract  virtues  to  the  con- 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i  13 

crete  being  whom  he  loved,  but  he  felt  it  in  him  to  go 
farther  and  endeavor  to  make  himself  the  practical  equal 
of  his  ideal.  He  resolved  hereafter  to  find  amusement 
only  in  his  work,  and  live  altogether  in  the  thought  of 
her  approbation.  Her  approbation  would  keep  him  in 
the  straight  way  if  anything  could. 

Not  that  Billy  had  ever  been  a  hardened  outlaw  or  a 
leader  of  others  into  crooked  ways.  His  sins  had  been 
the  sins  of  compliance  ;  he  would  always  rather  partici 
pate  than  plan.  Besides,  his  conscience  had  never  lost 
sight  of  him,  and  whenever  his  actions  overreached  the 
average  wrong  to  which  he  had  accustomed  himself,  he 
felt  the  pangs  of  remorse  in  so  lively  a  manner  that  he 
was  careful  of  his  conduct  for  a  long  time  after.  But  now, 
measured  by  the  standard  of  what  Maria's  lover  ought  to 
be,  he  recognized  in  himself  a  hardened  sinner,  unworthy 
to  touch  even  the  hem  of  her  garment.  She  showed  him 
his  childhood  side  by  side  with  his  manhood  and  made 
him  ashamed. 

When  Billy  came  to  California  a  helpless,  untried  boy, 
he  did  as  the  Californians  did,  not  because  he  found  any 
genuine  pleasure  therein,  but  because  it  was  easier  to  con 
form  than  protest.  He  smoked,  he  drank,  he  gambled, 
he  laughed  at  the  sayings  and  doings  of  the  lewd  women 
who  dominated  the  mines  ;  and  all  this  without  forgetting 
his  mother's  teachings,  but  only  as  a  make-shift  for  the 
better  things  he  intended  to  do  when  circumstances  should 
allow  him  to  be  himself  without  incurring  the  incon 
venience  of  ridicule. 

But  that  time  never  came.  Each  day  was  a  repetition 
of  yesterday.  Example,  to  which  his  compliant  nature 
was  always  disposed  to  yield,  became  the  gauge  of  his 
actions  ;  his  self-condemnatory  moments  grew  rarer  and 
rarer,  until  he  wore  into  the  common  shape,  and  the  de 
tails  of  his  experience  became  mere  repetitions  of  the 

8 


II4  IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

experience  of  the  men  he  followed.  He  never  thought  of 
a  better  condition  of  things  for  himself  except  in  a  worldly 
and  material  sense ;  he  saw  nothing  better  in  life  than  to 
work  till  Saturday  night  and  then  come  into  camp  for  his 
spree  with  the  others.  The  devil  had  made  friends  with 
him  and  would  not  quit  him,  and  as  the  old  gentleman 
was,  on  the  whole,  rather  agreeable, — at  least  more  agree 
able  than  he  would  have  been  as  an  adversary, — Billy  did 
not  try  strenuously  to  shake  him  off.  Compliance  is  so 
easy  for  easy  people  who  dread  rebuke ;  they  move  read 
ily  in  the  oiled  groove  of  circumstance,  and  make  no 
noise  in  the  world,  discordant  or  otherwise. 

At  last  Billy  turned  away  and  sought  his  heap  of  blankets 
in  the  cabin.  There  he  lay  looking  out  of  the  little  window 
at  the  clouds  which  lay  vaguely  against  the  moonlit  sky 
and  listening  to  the  mysterious  whisperings  of  the  night ; 
but  his  thoughts  were  down  in  the  valley  where  Maria 
was.  What  an  inspiration  to  accompany  him  into  the 
land  of  dreams,  the  thought  that  she  was  not  far  off,  that 
he  could  see  her  again  to-morrow  and  next  day  and  next 
day,  week  after  week,  perhaps  for  the  rest  of  his  life  ! 
This  was  living  indeed  !  His  love  had  blossomed  in  one 
supreme  moment,  covering  the  barrenness  of  his  soul 
with  a  growth  as  fresh  and  sweet  and  wholesome  as  the 
first  grass  which  sprang  up  at  the  direct  command  of  God. 
And  at  last  he  fell  asleep,  with  the  water  calling,  calling, 
even  in  his  dreams,  like  voices  that  speak  brokenly  but 
lovingly  from  a  distance. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i  x  5 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ALL  the  next  morning  Billy  kept  conscientiously  at 
work  with  pick  and  shovel,  often  singing  in  time  to  his 
rhythmic  blows  on  the  rock— singing  not  so  melodiously, 
perhaps,  as  the  birds  sing,  and  yet  with  the  very  spirit  of 
the  birds,  because  the  winter  was  over,  it  was  mating- 
time,  and  the  riot  of  inward  happiness  must  find  vent 
somehow,  no  matter  if  only  the  rocks  and  trees,  were 
there  to  listen.  I  fear  he  would  not  have  worked  at  all 
that  morning  had  he  consulted  his  own  inclinations ;  but 
he  had  a  faint  recollection  that  ladies  were  not  in  the 
habit  of  receiving  calls  early  in  the  day — a  custom  whose 
significance  he  could  not  fathom,  but  which  he  felt  con 
strained  to  observe,  out  of  deference  to  prejudice  and  cus 
tom  ;  and  until  such  time  as  he  could  go  to  Maria, 
digging  was  as  good  as  anything  to  pass  away  the  time. 
Work  was  not  work  in  the  company  of  such  thoughts  as 
Billy  had.  He  could  hardly  imagine  himself  disliking 
anything  laborious  hereafter ;  Maria's  name  was  an  all- 
potent  spell  for  the  transformation  of  unpleasant  things  ; 
in  it  he  felt  the  power  of  ancient  magicians  to  exorcise 
evil  spirits,  drive  away  storms  and  pestilence,  and  cure 
all  manner  of  diseases. 

At  noon  he  set  his  pick  and  shovel  behind  the  cabin 
door,  swallowed  some  cold  boiled  beans — as  to  their 
quantity  or  quality  he  had  not  the  faintest  idea — washed 
them  down  with  cold  coffee,  and  proceeded  to  make  his 
toilet.  And  a  truly  primitive  toilet  it  was.  First  he  went 
out  to  the  pool  beneath  the  waterfall,  where,  in  the  quiet, 
shallow  margin,  the  blue  water  was  dappled  with  clouds 


1 1 6  W  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

and  the  rocks  and  trees  were  glassed  as  in  a  mirror; 
here  he  stripped  himself  and  waded  out  under  the  foam 
ing"  waterfall  and  stood  there  five  minutes  or  more,  enjoy 
ing  such  a  bath  as  the  naiads  of  old  might  have  envied  ; 
then,  all  wet  and  shining  and  agitated  by  delicious 
shivers,  he  put  on  his  clothes  with  the  jubilant  exhalation 
that  "cold  water  is  the  life  of  a  man."  Next  he  reentered 
the  cabin  and  brushed  his  red  hair  carefully  into  what 
Californians  call  a  "cow-lick" — a  system  of  combing 
which  in  the  mines  is  considered  equivalent  to  a  verbal 
declaration  of  social  reform  ;  then  he  examined  his  dirty 
boots  with  a  critical  eye,  shook  his  head  doubtfully,  then 
half  determined  to  clean  them,  but  finally  concluded  the 
operation  would  take  too  much  time ;  and,  last  of  all, 
he  donned  a  stupendous  necktie  that  suggested  mingled 
thunder  and  lightning  and  human  gore,  eyed  himself 
complacently  in  his  little  cracked  mirror,  and  started  on 
his  visit  to  Maria. 

He  wondered  how  she  would  look  at  him,  what  her 
first  words  would  be.  Friendly,*  he  hoped — nay,  he  was 
sure  of  so  much.  He  felt  already  good  friends  with  her, 
but — might  not  a  fellow  (Billy  meant  himself  by  the 
generic  term)  reasonably  look  for  something  more  than 
mere  friendliness  in  her  glance  ?  He  could  not  be  sure 
of  anything  more  than  good  fellowship  yesterday,  though 
once  or  twice  he  half  believed  there  might  be.  One  of 
Maria's  charms  lay  in  the  fact  that  a  man  couldn't  read 
her  all  at  once  ;  the  windings  of  her  character  had  to  be 
followed  and  studied  ;  and  what  could  be  more  agreeable 
than  the  investigation  of  such  phenomena?  She  was  as 
full  of  meaning  as  the  picture  of  an  unfamiliar  city,  and 
though  he  could  only  guess  at  the  ultimate  leading  of 
her  by-ways  and  thoroughfares,  he  was  more  than  satis 
fied  with  her  general  plan. 

Maria  met  him  at  the  door,  handsome  and  smiling. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  Of  HA  VILAH.  1 1 7 

She  had  such  a  wonderful  way  of  being  friendly,  Billy 
thought.  She  shook  hands  with  him  cordially — more  than 
cordially — she  gave  his  hand  an  unmistakable  squeeze. 
Billy  liked  that,  and  squeezed  back  very  hard,  hoping  she 
would  do  it  again ;  but  she  didn't.  She  drew  her  hand 
awa'y  with  a  little  laugh,  but  somehow  he  understood 
that  she  was  not  offended  at  his  squeezing  back.  Alto 
gether  Maria  in  the  flesh  \Vas  better,  if  possible,  than  the 
spiritual  Maria  who  had  kept  him  awake  the  night 
before. 

"  We  ain't  got  no  chairs-  yit,"  she  said  in  her  healthy, 
hearty  voice,  placing  a  candle-box  by  the  front  window 
for  him  to  sit  on.  "  After  dad  gits  to  work  we  can  have 
some,  I  hope.  We  ain't  had  no  chairs  o'  our  own  fer 
years  'n'  years — how  long  ago  was  it  't  we  had  them 
painted  chairs  in  the  room  back  o'  the  saloon  in  Nevady 
City,  ma, — when  dad  run  the  Pug  Dog,  don't  ye  'mem 
ber  ?  Lor',  it  must  a-been  fourteen  or  fifteen  year  ago — 
I  know  I  wa'n't  nothin'  but  a  little  teeny  kid.  Whatever 
becomes  o'  the  time,  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell." 

Billy  sat  down  on  the  box  by  the  window,  as  happy  as 
a  king  on  his  throne.  And  yet,  after  that  first  overflow 
of  confidence,  he  felt  strangely  silly  and  confused.  He 
dared  not  look  into  Maria's  face  lest  she  should  see  the 
gladness  in  his  eyes  and  demand  the  cause  of  it.  He 
wondered  what  she  really  thought  of  his  squeezing  her 
hand  in  that  fashion — surely  she  couldn't  have  forgotten 
such  an  event  already,  though  he  had  to  confess  she 
looked  mightily  unconcerned.  He  wondered  how  he 
had  dared  to  do  it,  even  though  she  led  him  on — possibly 
it  was  a  mistake  after  all,"  and  he  had  only  dreamed  it. 
Anyway,  he  was  sure  he  would  never  venture  on  such 
familiarity  again  ;  she  might  resent  it  a  second  time, 
though  she  passed  it  over  so  smoothly  the  first.  She 
ought  to  have  boxed  his  ears — it  would  have  served  him 


1 1 8  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

right  Not  that  he  was  sorry  for  what  he  had  done— on 
the  contrary ;  only  it  was  a  bold  thing  to  do  with  a  girl 
like  Maria.  He  looked  confusedly  out  at  the  sky,  where 
the  scattered  clouds  lay  light  as  pollen  dust — at  the  river, 
where  the  shadows  fell  in  the  water  scarcely  darker  than 
the  sunshine.  How  bright  everything  was — how  full  of 
music  !  He  himself  seemed  floating  on  waves  of  slow 
melody. 

He  did  not  dare  to  turn  and  look  at  Maria,  but  he  felt 
the  need  of  saying  something,  as  people  in  a  bashful 
mood  always  do.  With  his  face  still  averted  toward  the 
river,  he  managed  to  begin  : 

1  'Oh,  ye'll  like  it  'ere,  I'm  sure  !  "  he  said. 

He  was  so  happy  himself  that  it  seemed  as  if  every 
body,  especially  Maria,  must  be  likewise.  She  had  an 
effect  on  him  like  a  draught  of  delicious  wine. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  afeerd  o'  that/'  she  answered. 

He  managed  to  take  his  eyes  from  the  river,  but  even 
yet  he  could  not  look  at  her.  He  glanced  around  the 
room  in  a  furtive,  exploratory  way,  and  noticed  that  the 
floors  had  been  scrubbed  and  the  windows  washed. 

Maria  followed  his  glance  and  laughed.  She  under 
stood  his  confusion,  he  was  sure,  and  yet  she  never  said 
a  word  to  lessen  it.  But  that  is  the  way  with  women, 
Billy  thought.  They  like  to  make  a  fellow  uncomfortable 
just  to  show  their  power,  and  they  may  feel  as  friendly 
as  possible  toward  him  all  the  time.  But  the  thought  that 
he  must  be  appearing  awkward  in  her  eyes  filled  him 
with  the  resolution  to  appear  more  off-hand  and  easy,  no 
matter  at  what  expense  of  will-power  he  had  to  accom 
plish  it.  With  commendable  boldness  he  fixed  his  eyes 
on  the  wall  about  two  feet  above  her  head  and  managed 
to  articulate  : 

"  Ye've  been  cleanin'  house  'n'  makin'   things   com- 
ftable,  I  see." 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 1  g 

"  Yes,  a  little,"  she  answered.     She  did  not  seem  in 
clined  to  help  him  at  all.     Cruel  Maria  ! 

The  knowledge  that  she  had  left  him  to  work  out  his 
own  salvation  filled  him  with  a  spasmodic  energy. 

"  Ye  ain't  one  o'  the  sort  to  let  the  grass  grow  under 
yer  feet/'  he  said,  in  a  complimentary  tone. 

' '  Yes,  I  stirred  aroun'  a  little  this  forenoon.  The  floor  'n' 
winders  'd  been  callin'  fer  water  fer  months.  Things  gen'- 
rally  was  ruther  dirty.  La,  this  is  suthin'  like  li vin',  this  is. 
Why,  it's  lux'ry  !  Don't  ye  think  the  room  looks  better?  " 

After  that  the  ice  seemed  broken,  and  Billy  felt  easier. 
He  glanced  around  the  room  with  smiling  approval  and 
laughed  for  very  joy.  It  seemed  so  natural  for  Billy  to 
laugh.  Maria  liked  to  hear  him,  and  so  she  laughed  too, 
in  sympathy  ;  and  then  they  looked  at  each  other  rather 
consciously,  and  of  course  Billy  blushed.  But  he  was 
determined  not  to  be  bashful  any  more.  Underneath 
Maria's  coquetry  he  perceived  the  warmth  of  a  cordial 
reception,  and  that  made  him  bold. 

"Well,  I  should  say  it  does  look  better  !"  he  cried. 
"  If  I  had  a  million  dollars  this  minute,  I'd  lay  every  cent 
o'  it  ye  won't  be  bothered  with  a  red  ant  here  all  summer. " 

"Why?"  asked  Maria. 

"  They'll  fall  down  on  sech  a  slick  floor  'n'  break  their 
necks,  every  mother's  son  o'  'em  !  "  he  said  with  enthu 
siasm.  Then  he  flushed  and  laughed,  and  Maria  laughed 
with  him  again. 

"Novr,jyou/"  she  reproved  him,  shaking  her  head  and 
lifting  her  face.  "Ye're  allus  flatterin'.  Ye  fergit  't 
praise  to  the  face  is  open  disgrace." 

"Then  I'm  disgraced  forever,  'n'  proud  o'  it !  "  cried 
Billy,  with  increasing  boldness.  "  'N'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to 
take  back  a  word  o'  what  I  said.  'N'  I'm  a-goin'  to  add 
to  it  't  ye're  a  nat'ral-born  housekeeper,  M — m — Miss 
Mariar ! " 


120  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

And  then  he  stopped.  He  was  afraid  he  ought  to  have 
called  her  Miss  Pugsley. 

But  she  did  not  seem  to  notice. 

'*  Much  jyou  know  'bout  housekeeping"  she  said,  still 
shaking  her  head  and  smiling.  "  'N'  'tain't  much  ?t  I 
know  'bout  it,  nuther,  to  tell  the  truth.  But  now  't  I've 
got  a  home  o'  my  own  I  intend  to  learn,  'n'  ye'll  see 
wonders  aroun'  the  place  'ere  if  ye  keep  yer  eye  peeled. 
Ye  mus'  come  in  often — every  day — V  see  how  I .  im 
prove.  " 

Billy  turned  away  his  face  to  hide  the  new  flush  of 
pleasure  he  felt  surge  across  it.  An  ancient  god  who  felt 
himself  the  owner  of  a  rich  temple  never  was  so  divinely 
proud  and  happy  as  was  Billy  at  that  moment. 

"  Thankee,  M — m — Miss  Mariar,"  he  stammered. 

This  time  she  noticed  the  hesitation  and  formality  with 
which  he  pronounced  her  name. 

"  Oh,  leave  off  the  handle,"  she  said,  easily.  "I  ain't 
none  o'  yer  fine  folks,  'n'  style  don't  go  on  me.  Call  me 
jes'  plain  Mariar." 

Billy  sank  back  in  a  state  of  beatitude,  unable  to  utter 
a  sound  for  very  happiness.  What  a  wonderful,  off-hand 
way  she  had  of  doing  things,  to  be  sure  !  What  a  com 
fort  it  was  to  sit  in  the  same  room  with  her,  feel  her  near 
presence,  note  her  quick  smiles,  and  know  that  she  was 
not  altogether  indifferent  to  his  friendship  !  It  was  like 
the  warmth  of  a  blazing  fire  after  a  day  in  the  snow  and 
wind — nay,  it  was  like  something  more  rapturous  than 
that — he  could  not  tell  what  it  was  like.  And  what  a 
stupendously  wonderful  thing  a  beautiful  woman  is,  alto 
gether  f  Billy  had  never  noticed  before  what  long,  rich 
eyelashes  some  women  have,  what  redness  of  lips  and 
cheeks,  what  brightness  of  eyes,  and  into  what  distracting 
little  .wavy  lines  some  women's  hair  arranges  itself !  And 
then  that  smooth  curve  of  the  cheek  just  where  the  ear 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  2 1 

begins  and  the  throat  ends ;  the  ears  themselves,  like  the 
pretty  pink  shells  he  had  seen  in  the  curiosity  shops  in 
the  city  ;  and  the  throat  and  chin — the  sudden  discovery 
of  such  multitudinous  charms  almost  took  his  breath 
away.  He  felt  like  one  who  is  in  contact  with  unknown 
things ;  he  had  never  noticed  that  women  were  in  any 
way  like  that.  And  there  she  sat,  smiling  demurely 
while  he  examined  her,  as  if  unconscious  of  everything. 
He  wanted  to  reach  out  and  touch  her,  to  make  sure  that 
she  was  really  there. 

He  would  have  liked  it  better — granting  that  such  a 
thing  were  possible — had  she  displayed  some  such  signs 
of  confusion  as  he  was  sure  she  had  noticed  in  him,  but 
he  satisfied  himself  with  the  assurance  that  she  was  not 
the  woman  to  fall  in  love  at  first  sight ;  she  must  have  time 
and  circumstance  before  she  could  come  to  it.  All  he 
could  do  at  present  was  to  be  good  friends  with  her,  make 
her  feel  his  love  in  silence,  teach  her  to  think  of  him  and 
need  his  presence.  Billy  was  capable  of  some  selfish 
calculation  even  in  the  unselfishness  of  his  love.  He 
must  keep  the  other  men  of  Havilah  away,  and  he  could 
accomplish  that  best  by  being  so  kind  to  her  that  she 
would  have  no  need  of  other  friendship.  If  she  could 
not  love  him  at  once  fully,  as  he  loved  her,  she  could 
learn,  if  no  other  man  interfered.  Her  friendship  for 
him  was  a  warrant  that  he  could  place  himself  near  her 
and  surround  her  with  kindnesses.  This  was  his  way  of 
fortifying  the  city  and  garrisoning  it  with  soldiers. 

"Ma  didn't  want  me  to  slick  up  at  all,"  said  Maria 
presently,  glancing  at  her  mother  who  lay  on  the  blankets 
with  her  eyes  shut,  but  with  the  unmistakable  look  of  an 
invalid  who  knows  that  the  condition  of  her  health  is 
noted.  "She  said  things  was  good  'nough  as  they  was. 
But  I  reckon  she's  better  satisfied  now  't  it's  all  over,  ain't 
ye,  ma  ? " 


122  /AT  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  did  not  unclose  her  eyes  but  drew  her 
lank  knees  up  to  her  chin. 

"  That  bacon  't  we  had  fer  dinner  was  too  fat  'n'  no- 
bo^y  can  change  my  mind  o'  it,"  she  declared  with  more 
than  her  usual  decision.  "  I've  allus  stuck  to  it  as  fat 
meat  o'  any  kind  ain't  good  for  the  lungs." 

"She's  tired,  ma  is — pore  ole  ma!"  said  Maria. 
"  She  don't  git 's  much  joy  out  o'  the  new  house  's  what 
I  do.  But  she'll  have  a  good  chance  to  rest  now.  We've 
all  o'  us  been  on  the  go  long  'nough,  the  Lord  knows — • 
'n'  ma  specially." 

Billy  never  knew  in  talking  to  Mrs.  Pugsley  whether 
he  ought  to  be  melancholy  or  in  high  spirits — melancholy 
from  sympathy  or  in  high  spirits  with  the  hope  of  cheer 
ing  her  up,  so  compromised  the  matter  by  trying  to  look 
both  ways  and  succeeded  in  looking  neither. 

"Maud  Elizy's  som'ers  aroun'.  She  went  into  the 
woodshed  to  change  'er  shoes.  Shall  I  call  'er  ? ?'  asked 
Maria. 

"Oh,  I  reckon  ye  needn't  bother 'er,"  answered  Billy 
with  self-denial.  ' 1 1  ain't  a-goin'  to  stay  long. " 

Maria  laughed. 

"I  reckoned  ye  might  want  to  see 'er, "  she  said,  de 
murely. 

And  then  Billy  laughed  sheepishly. 

"  I  thought  we  was  goin'  to  be  good  friends  'n'  all  that/ 
she  added  after  a  moment.  "  'N'  here  ye  begin  by  sayin' 
ye  ain't  goin'  to  stay  long.  That  ain't  no  way. " 

"  Then  I'll  take  it  back  'n'  say  I've  come  to  stay  forever. " 
'  Oh,  don't ! "  cried  Maria,  flinging  up  her  hands  in 
mock  horror.  "I  never  could  stan'  that,  I'm  sure  !  One 
man  in  the  fam'ly  's  all  I  can  go." 

And  then  they  both  laughed  again. 

"I  d'  know  where  dad  is,"  she  went  on.  "  Mebbe 
he'll  be  in  purty  quick.  I  reckon  he's  out  som'ers  tryin' 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILA II.  123 

to  sponge  a  drink  off  'm  some  o'  the  saloons,  like  he's 
been  doin'  all  his  life.  Oh,  well !  I  allus  want  'im  to 
have  'nough  to  keep  'im  good-natured.  He's  a  terror 
when  he  runs  short,  'n'  I  have  to  watch  'im  every  minute 
to  keep  'im  from  'busin'  ma.  When  he  gits  suthin'  to  do, 
we  won't  have  nothin'  more  to  ask  fer,  seems  to  me/' 

"Oh,  he  can  git  work  easy  enough.  If  he  can't  do  no 
better  I'll  give  'im  a  job  on  my  claim  up  the  gulch,  there. 
He  can  get  good  wages  anywheres  if  he  can  dig." 

Maria  shook  her  head  doubtfully. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  he'll  dig/'  she  said.  "  He  never  has, 
so  fur.  He  allus  calc'lates  on  packin'  or  teamin'  where 
other  folks  has  to  do  most  o'  the  liftin'.  He's  a  lazy  ole 
cove,  dad  is.  I  never  seen  a  porer  imitation  o'  a  man." 

"He  married  a  Swipes,"  articulated  Mrs.  Pugsley,  with 
her  eyes  still  shut.  "'  N'  all  the  Swipeses  from  Adam 
down  was  proud  'n'  scorned  to  work." 

"It  might  a-been  better  fer 'em  if  they  Had  worked," 
declared  Maria.  It  was  the  first  time  Billy  ever  heard 
her  say  anything  in  disapproval  of  her  mother.  "  'Tain't 
's  disgraceful  to  work  's  tis  to  starve  or  steal  or — or  go 
dirty." 

Mrs.  Pugsley  groaned  and  shook  her  head.  She  had 
regulated  her  life  according  to  a  contrary  system  of  ethics. 


124  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

"WELL,  well,"  said  Billy  in  a  confident  tone,  "prob'ly 
yer  daddy'll  git  suthin'  to  suit  'im  'fore  long.  I'll  look 
aroun'  'n'  see  what  I  can  do  fer  'im.  I've  got  friends  7ere 
't  may  be  useful." 

Maria  thanked  him  with  a  look. 

"  Dad's  slower  'n  the  wrath  o'-heaven  when  work's  the 
talk,"  she  said.  "  'N'  it  'ud  be  jes'  like  'im  to  give  ye 
mud  if  ye  took  pains  to  find  suthin'  fer  'im,  'n'  say  'twas 
too  hard  fer  his  frame,  or  suthin'.  That's  the  kind  o' 
dandelion  he  is." 

"Oh,  I  reckon  he'll  come  to  time,"  answered  Billy. 
"They's  purty  sure  to  be  teamin'  o'  some  sort.  Have 
ye  been  out  aroun'  the  camp  yit  to  look  at  things  ?  "  He 
asked  the  question  with  the  sly  intention  of  discovering 
whether  she  had  met  with  the  masculine  admiration  he 
was  sure  would  be  hers  when  she  went  abroad.  "  Tain't 
much  o'  a  place,"  he  added,  to  take  off  what  seemed  to 
him  the  wiry  edge  of  his  remark. 

Maria  looked  down  at  her  dress. 

"  Lor'  !  "  she  exclaimed.  "  Been  aroun'  the  camp  ?  I 
should  say  not !  I  never  heercl  tell  o'  the  likes  o'  you 
men,  to  think  a  woman  can  clean  house  'n'  gad  the  streets 
'n'  do  forty-'leven  other  things  to  wunst !  What  d'  ye 
reckon  we're  made  of,  anyhow  ? " 

Billy  wanted  to  answer  " sugar  candy,"  but  did  not 
dare. 

"  'N'  while  I  had  a  fire  I  done  a  bakin',  too — the  best 
bread  ye  ever  flopped  a  lip  over,  if  I  do  say  it  myself  't 
made  it — a-raisin'  up  out  o'  the  pan  till  ye'd  think  it  was 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAff.  125 

goin'  through  the  ruff  o'  the  house  'n'  clean  up  to  glory. 
D'ye  reckon  't  a  woman  't  does  all  that  in  a  forenoon  's 
.got  time  to  go  a-sailin'  up  'n'  down  the  streets  ?  Well !  " 
she  laughed,  but  there  was  a  ring  in  her  voice  that  made 
Billy  look  at  her  curiously. 

"  'N'  'sides  all  that,  I  washed  my  other  dress  this 
mornin' — the  one  I  wore  yesterday."  Here  a  slight  flush 
came  into  her  forehead.  "  'N'  I  ain't  got  but  two,  so  I 
had  to  put  this  'ere  one  on.  I  hope  ye  won't  look  at 
it  clost,  fer  it's  awful— wuss  'n  the  other  one." 

' '  Awful  ?  "  echoed  Billy.      ' '  Not  at  all  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  'tis.  Don't  tell  me.  It's  a  heap  wuss'n  the 
other  one,  'n'  that  was  bad'nough,  goodness  knows.  I'm 
goin'  to  wash  this  one,  too,  soon's  the  other  dries  'n'  I  git 
it  done  up.  It's  sech  a  nuisance  to  have  only  two 
dresses  !  " 

"  Ye  orter  have  a  hundred  thousand,"  declared  Billy. 
•"Oh,    I   reckon   I'd  be  contented  with  three  or  four. 
I've  kep'  purty  clost  to  the  house  to-day  fer  fear  some  'un 
'ud  see  me  lookin'  so.     I  don't  want  folks  a-lookin'  down 
on  my  dirty  clo'se,"  she  added,  somewhat  fiercely. 

Her  change  of  tone  and  manner  puzzled  him. 

"  I'm  sure  I  never  thought  o'  lookin'  down  on  yer 
clo'se,"  he  said,  taking  her  words  as  an  accusation  against 
himself. 

At  this  point  in  the  conversation  Mrs.  Pugsley  stirred 
and  opened  her  eyes.  Billy  had  entirely  forgotten  her. 

"  Ye'll  have  to  pick  out  the  lean  bacon  fer  me  nex'  time. 
Mariar,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of  one  who  is  conscious 
of  a  too  exquisite  sensibility  to  uncongenial  influences. 
"I've  allus  said  as  my  lungs  was  too  weak  fer  fat  meat/' 
And  she  spread  herself  out  on  her  blankets,  and  incorpo 
rate  dampness.  Billy  wished  heartily  that  she  could  have 
lain  quiescent  a  moment  longer,  for  when  she  got  started 
there  was  no  telling  how  long  she  might  keep  it  up,  and 


126  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

he  wanted  to  fathom  the  mystery  of  Maria's  changed 
manner.  To  be  obliged  to  listen  to  the  old  woman  at 
this  moment  was  distressing — it  was  to  be  tortured  by 
the  boots  of  love,  as  Shakespeare  puts  it. 

Maria  did  not  notice  her  mother's  interruption.  She 
seemed  to  be  thinking  of  other  things. 

The  moist  woman  continued  : 

"When  the  weather  gits  settled  'n'  the  roads  dry  up  so 
't  I  can  git  out  doors  agin  'n'  my  side  quits  a  draggin'  the 
breath  out  o'  me,  I  shall  want  a  pair  o'  hoops.  They 
was  all  the  style  in  'Frisco  when  we  went  through  there 
two  year'  ago  las'  summer  'n'  I've  allus  wanted  a  pair  ever 
sense.  I've  allus  said  as  they  was  elegant,  ye  know  I 
have,  Mariar." 

"Yes,"  was  the  absent  reply. 

"'N'  now  't'  we've  got  a  home  o'  our  own  'n'  livin'  in 
lux'ry,  I  don't  see  why  I  can't  have  'em.  They'd  make  a 
lady  o'  me,  as  I  orter  be.  I  ain't  hadnothin  decent  sense 
I  was  a  Swipes,  'n'  seems  to  me  it's  'bout  time  to  begin. 
I  don't  see  what  I've  done  to  go  round  lookin'  like  I  do. 
Pm  sure  I  never  done  nothin'  'n'  don't  intend  to." 

"Mebbe  dad  '11  git  ye  a  pair  when  he  finds  work,"  said 
Maria,  in  the  same  absent  way. 

"I'll  never  git  'em  at  all  if  I  wait  fer  him"  said  the 
moist  woman  with  a  sigh  of  ostentatious  renunciation. 
"I've  ast'em  time  'n'agin  fer  'em,  'n'  ye  know  's  well  's  I 
do  't  he  never  has  money  'nough  to  buy  proper  grub  fer 
the  family,  let  alone  hoops  'n'  lux'ries.  Two  year  I've 
been  at  'im  constant,  'n'  no  hoops  yit  nor  like  to  be. 
Oh,  well,  I  reckon  I  can  give  'em  up,  same's  I've  had  to 
everything  else  all  my  life  long,  though  there's  them 
about  'ere  as  own  gold  mines  'n'  could  make  me  a  present 
o'  'em  'n'  never  feel  it  if  they  'd  a  mind.  But  I  don't 
complain.  'Tain't  in  nater  fer  me  to  git  what  I  want. 
Though -I  never  could  see  why."  And  she  settled  back 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i 2  7 

as  only  a  woman  can  to  whom  the  longing  for  finery  has 
brought  a  realization  of  the  barrenness  of  time  and  cir 
cumstance. 

"  Mebbe  I  could  have  a  pair  sent  up  fer  ye  by  the  nex' 
stage,"  said  Billy,  beginning  to  see  the  drift  of  the  moist 
woman's  remarks.  "  Would  it  suit  ye  to  take  'em  as  a 
present  from  me?  I'm  sure  I'd  be  joyful." 

The  old  woman  disposed  of — Billy  would  have  been 
willing  to  purchase  her  silence  at  this  moment  with  un 
limited  car-loads  of  crinolines — he  turned  once  more  to 
Maria.  Had  he  said  anything  to  annoy  her  ?  He  could 
not  think  of  anything.  And  yet  at  the  moment  of  Mrs. 
Pugsley's  interruption  a  new  mood  had  unmistakably  en 
tered  into  her  look  and  tone.  He  longed  to  understand 
her, — he  was  certain  he  could  if  he  had  but  half  a  chance, 
— her  likes  and  dislikes  were  a  study  for  which  he  felt  he 
had  an  especial  genius.  It  was  with  a  sense  of  hurry  lest 
she  should  say  something  to  increase  his  bewilderment 
that  he  asked : 

"  Have  I  done  anything  out  o'  the  way,  Mariar  ?  "  His 
voice  shook  in  spite  of  him.  "I  didn't  mean  it,  on  my 
word — " 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  in  surprise. 

"  You  done  anything  ? "  she  asked,  and  he  felt  a  revival 
of  self-confidence  in  her  frank  tone.  "  Why,  no,  what  put 
that  into  yer  head  ? " 

"  Suthin'  ye  said  'bout  yer  gownd,  I  reckon.  But,  no 
matter.  It's  all  right  now.  I'm  sure  it  don't  look  dirty  at 
all.  Ye  look — beautiful." 

He  was  smiling,  but  he  uttered  the  word  earnestly,  with 
a  palpitating  eagerness.  For  an  instant  he  regretted  it, 
dreading  that  it  should  offend  her  ;  then  he  would  not 
have  recalled  it  if  he  could.  He  had  told  her  that  he 
admired  her,  and  she  must  see  that  he  was  greatly  in 
earnest. 


128  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

She  did  not  seem  offended.  She  only  laughed  again — 
they  both  laughed  a  great  deal,.  Billy  thought — but  this 
time  her  laughter  was  not  mirthful.  He  did  not  like  the 
sound  of  it ;  it  made  him  feel  for  the  first  time  in  his  life 
that  it  is  a  disadvantage  to  live  in  ignorance  of  the  mental 
processes  of  one's  neighbors. 

"Oh,  I  don't  meanjyou,"  she  said.  She  looked  restless 
and  discontented  with  herself,  impressing  him  with  the 
idea  that  she  was  trying  to  conceal  something.  The  flush 
on  her  forehead  deepened  and  she  commenced  plaiting 
her  old  gown  between  her  ringers.  "  I  meant  other  folks. 
All  men  ain't  \ikejyou,  ye  know.  All  men  ain't  got  yer 
kind  heart  'n'  friendly  ways." 

He  could  have  thrown  himself  at  her  feet  then  and 
there.  He  leaned  forward  with  a  great  yearning,  strain 
ing  toward  the  discovery  of  some  further  response  to  his 
love,  but  she  did  not  look  at  him,  she  did  not  seem  to  be 
thinking  of  him  at  all.  Her  eyes  were  employed  with  her 
hands  as  if  under  a  doom  to  plait  and  unplait  her  soiled 
gown  a  given  number  of  times  a  minute. 

He  drew  back  as  if  she  had  openly  repulsed  his  ten 
derness,  yet  quivering  with  a  desire  to  pour  out  his  heart 
to  her.  His  pulses  fluttered  noisily  ;  it  was  on  the  tip  of 
his  tongue  to  tell  her  then  and  there  of  his  hope  that  she 
would  care  for  him,  that  she  would  let  him  care  for  her 
always  ;  but  her  strange  manner  held  him  back.  She 
seemed  all  at  once  so  nervous,  so  irritable  ;  what  reaction 
from  his  conduct  could  have  made  her  so  ?  He  could 
not  understand  it,  and  yet  with  the  delusion  of  a  generous 
nature  he  commenced  to  explain  her  mood  to  her  advan 
tage.  Probably  she  had  divined  his  feelings  and  was  an 
noyed  at  the  immoderate  speed  of  his  love-making,  most 
likely  that  was  it ;  but  that  ought  to  make  her  conscious 
of  his  presence  rather  than  forgetful  of  it,  as  she  seemed 
to  be.  Well,  perhaps  he  was  not  capable  of  understand- 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 39 

ing  her  so  readily  as  he  ha^  supposed.  All  he  could  make 
of  the  matter  was  that  women  are  strange. 

She  had  stopped  plaiting  her  gown  now  and  was  sit 
ting  with  her  hands  loosely  clasped  but  with  the  air  ot 
one  who  waits  uneasily.  Then  another  change  passed 
over  her.  She  straightened  herself  in  her  chair,  as  if 
bracing  for  a  physical  effort,  while  her  eyes  met  his  in 
defiance  of  his  opinion  of  what  she  intended  to  say.  Her 
cheeks  and  forehead  burned,  and  while  her  brows  frowned, 
her  lips  framed  themselves  in  a  tremulous  smile  which 
contradicted  the  carelessness  with  which  she  tried  to 
speak/ 

Billy  looked  at  her  in  wonder.  This  was  not  the 
Maria  of  five  minutes  before.  She  saw  his  surprise  as  a 
sick  man  may  notice  a  look  of  alarm  on  his  attendant's 
face,  but  ignored  its  significance  and  concentrated  her 
thoughts  as  for  a  mental  spring. 

"  Who  is  the  man  that  talked  with  you  out  there  by  the 
gate  yesterday  ? " 

She  leaned  toward  him,  clutching  her  hands  together 
and  fixing  her  eyes  upon  his  face  a  little  below  his  return 
ing  gaze. 

"  That? "  answered  Billy,  surprised  anew.  "  Why,  that 
was  Jim  Hulse.  I  thought  I  told  ye." 

She  shook  herself  impatiently.  She  was  not  in  a  mood 
to  be  misunderstood. 

"I  don't  mean  his  name.  I  knowed  that.  Can't  y<* 
understan'  what  I  want  ? "  With  all  her  impatience  she 
tried  to  speak  as  if  making  a  casual  inquiry.  "I  mean, 
what's  he  like  ? " 

11  Ye  saw  him,  didn't  ye?  "answered  Billy.  " Can't  ye 
jedge  fer  yerself  ? " 

She  shook  herself  again. 

"  No,  what's  he  like  ?  "    Her  voice  rang  high  and  hard. 

"Id'  know  hardly  what  he  is  like,"  replied  Billy,  shrink- 

9 


!30  /AT  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

ing  slightly  from  her  excited  looks.  "  He's  a  mighty  queei 
man.  That's  all  I  know." 

"  Ye  said  he  read  books." 

"Yes." 

"  Ye've  seen  'im  a-doin'  it  ? " 

"  Many  a  time.     Books  with  queer  letters  in  'em." 

"What  else  ?" 

"  What  else  does  he  read,  d'ye  mean  ?  " 

* '  Oh,  can't  ye  understan'  ? "  she  cried,  angrily.  And  .then 
in  a  voice  of  under-toned  incisiveness,  "I  wish  't  /could 
read  books.  Books  like  that. " 

She  unclasped  her  hands  with  a  quick  wrench  and 
folded  her  arms  tightly  across  her  bosom. 

"Oh,  I  can  read,"  she  cried,  meeting  Billy's  eyes  for 
the  first  time.  But  she  looked  away  again  as  she  went 
on.  "Not  good,  though.  Not  the  way  I'd  like  to.  Not 
the  way  he  reads." 

"Well,  I  never  took  much  stock  in  learnin',  nohow," 
remarked  Billy. 

"  Nor  1 !  "  she  answered  with  a  shrill  laugh.  She  tossed 
her  head  and  drew  her  arms  closer  together  across  her 
bosom.  ' '  Other  folks  does  though.  He  does. " 

"  'Tain't  necessary  fer  a  miner,"  Billy  said,  his  voice 
thickening  in  spite  of  him.  "Jim  Hulse  ain't  no  happier 
fer  it.  Nor  no  better  off." 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"  Ye  said  he'd  murdered  some  one,  wunst.  I  believe  it. 
He  could  do  it  with  his  eyes.  He  could  do  anything 
with  them  eyes  o'  his.  They  burnt  into  me.  I  feel  'em 
yit." 

"He  aint  got  a  good  repytation,  I  know  that."  Billy 
uttered  the  words  with  a  secret  satisfaction  of  which  he 
was  more  than  half  ashamed.  "But  they  ain't  no  proof 
o'  anything  wrong  with  'im.  He  ain't  done  nothin'out  o' 
the  way  sence  he  come  'ere.  It's  only  what  folks  says." 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  r^ 

"  More  shame  to  'em  !  "  exclaimed  Maria  with  sudden 
heat,  unfolding  her  arms  and  facing  him  with  the  look  of 
a  champion.  But  something  in  his  glance  must  have 
confused  her  for  she  dropped  her  eyes  and  commenced 
plaiting  her  gown  again.  "I  only  meant  't  folks  'd 
better  be  'tendin'  to  their  own  bizness.  It's  the  least 
they  can  do." 

She  did  not  look  at  him  for  some  time,  and  when  she 
did  it  was  as  if  shrinking  from  what  he  might  think  of 
her. 

"  What  makes  ye  look  V  talk  like  that  'bout  'im  ?  "  cried 
Billy,  urged  to  expression  by  a  twinge  of  honest  jealousy. 
"What's  Jim  Hulse  'n' his  murders  to  you  r>  If  ye're 
int'rested  in  'im " 

She  burst  into  a  shrill  scream  of  laughter.  Mrs.  Pugsley 
opened  her  eyes  and  uttered  a  faint  protest  which  Maria 
did  not  hear, 

"  Me  int'rested  in  'im  ?  "  she  cried,  still  laughing  in  that 
exaggerated,  hysterical  way.  "Well,  if  that  ain't  good  ! 
Me  int'rested  in  that  air  feller  ?  As  well  ask  if  he's 
int'rested  in  me !  Oh,  Lord,  I  shall  die  a-laughin',  I 
know  I  shall  !  " 

At  this  moment  Mr.  Pugsley  came  in  from  a  successful 
tour  among  the  saloons,  and  the  conversation  took  a  more 
general  turn.  When  Billy  rose  to  go  Maria  accompanied 
him  out  upon  the  porch,  inviting  him  to  come  again  and 
often.  Her  usual  manner  had  returned  and  nothing  could 
be  more  genuine  than  the  frank  cordiality  of  her  looks 
and  words.  .  4 

"Ye're  the  only  feller  here  't  I  know  or  am  likely  to 
know,"  she  said.  "  So  ye  mustn't  go  back  on  me.  I  don't 
like  fellers,  gen'rally.  But  you  seem  jes'  like  a  brother. 
I'll  have  my  other  dress  washed  'n'  ironed  by  to-morrer, 
'n'  then  I'll  look  better,  mebbe.  Ye'd  better  call  aroun  'n' 
see." 


132  -W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA VI L AH. 

There  was  no  mistaking  her  friendliness.  She  did 
care  for  him. 

"  Ye  allus  look  well  'nough  for  me/'  he  replied,  gal 
lantly. 

And  he  went  away  happy  in  spite  of  his  bewilderment, 
though  half  convinced  all  the  time  that  his  recent  doubt 
would  produce  a  certain  result  on  his  future  lot.  But  it 
was  impossible  to  be  jealous  of  Jim  Hulse.  Jim  hated 
women,  and  Billy  remembered  the  fact  as  an  item  in  .his 
own  favor. 

"  That  air  young  feller,"  saidEphraim,  regarding  Billy's 
retreating  figure  with  the  bleared  eye  of  tipsy  affection, 
"  w'y-rl'd  like  to  be  that  air  young  feller's  daddy,  I 
would.  I — w'y — I  love  that  air  feller  a'ready  like  he  was 
my  own  son.  'Markable  chap  he  mus'  be  to  work  on  me 
so  quick  V  hard — eh,  Mariar  ?  He's  got  a  claim  up  'ere 
't  promises  millions.  I've  jes'  been  hearin'  'bout  it  down 
to  Boozey's.  Everybody's  talkin'  'bout  it.  He's  the  mos' 
successful  miner  o'  the  age,  Mariar  !  " 

"  I'm  glad  o'  it,"  was  her  quiet  answer.  "  He's  a  good 
feller,  Billy  is,  'n'  I  like  'im.  I  think  he'll  make  good  use 
o'  his  money.  He  deserves  to  git  rich,  if  anybody  does." 

And  she  would  say  no  more. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 33 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

FROM  her  infancy  Maria  Pugsley  had  been  imbued  with 
the  republican  sentiment, — a  substitute  for  religion  among 
people  of  her  class,— that  she  was  as  good  as  anybody 
and  didn't  propose  to  be  looked  down  upon,  an  opinion 
which  resulted  in  an  incalculable  sequence  of  ideas,  as 
republican  sentiments  sometimes  do.  For  having  pro 
gressed  so  far  as  to  believe  herself  as  good  as  anybody, 
she  felt  in  duty  bound  to  back  her  equality  by  a  willing 
ness  to  fight  for  it ;  after  which  there  followed  a  devel 
opment  from  the  negative  resolution  not  to  be  looked 
down  upon  to  the  positive  conviction  that  in  her  ability 
to  take  care  of  herself  she  was  superior  to  other  people 
and  therefore  ought  to  be  looked  up  to  ;  which  was  fol 
lowed  in  turn  by  a  disposition  to  fight  for  her  superiority, 
should  it  be  called  in  question.  Unconscious  of  any 
standard  of  excellence  except  personal  independence, — 
she  never  dreamed  that  her  kind-heartedness  and  love  of 
justice  were  excellent  qualities, — she  clattered  about  in 
her  little  world  as  proud  of  the  noise  she  made  as  a  small 
boy  in  large  boots.  Once  her  father,  in  a  casual  fit  of 
remonstrance,  told  her  that  she  was  always  too  full  of 
herself  to  walk  easy,  and  she  retorted  that  if  there  was  as 
much  of  him  as  there  was  of  her,  his  wretched  little  body 
couldn't  bear  the  strain  five  minutes,  but  would  split  open 
like  a  potato  in  hot  ashes.  Her  opinion  of  herself  was 
extraordinary,  working  out  a  half-pitying  contempt  for  all 
pleasures  that  were  not  of  her  kind,  and  for  all  employ 
ments  of  which  she  was  ignorant ;  she  screamed  and 
yelled  and  thought  herself  very  remarkable  indeed,  never 
imagining  that  she  was  on  a  level  with  the  savage  who 
sends  his  challenging  war-cry  through  his  small  expanse 


134  -W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

of  forest.  It  is  natural  to  take  pride  in  one's  supremacy, 
though  it  be  only  a  supremacy  of  bad  dreams  ;  and  the 
points  on  which  Maria  prided  herself  were  her  high  temper 
and  her  strong  will.  She  was  so  accustomed  to  exert  an 
absolute  authority  at  home  that  her  confidence  in  her 
ability  to  rule  the  world  at  large, — by  which  is  always 
meant  one's  little  circle  of  acquaintances, — had  grown  to 
astonishing  proportions,  together  with  a  disposition  to 
exact  the  admiration  of  her  associates  for  her  masculine 
force  of  character. 

It  puzzled  her  considerably  that  she  should  all  at  once 
be  overcome  by  a  sort  of  fierce  jealousy  of  this  Hulse's 
power  to  "  read  books"  ;  she  had  never  believed  very 
seriously  in  the  enjoyments  of  learning — certainly  she 
had  never  discovered  much  enjoyment  in  trying  to  read, 
it  was  such  a  bother  to  spell  through  the  words ;  but  it 
nettled  her  to  know  that  this  man  could  do  something 
which  she  could  not.  She  could  account  for  her  envy 
only  on  the  grounds  that  she  was  getting  weak-minded, 
and  she  assured  herself  repeatedly  in  her  moments  of 
solitary  meditation,  that  she  must  "brace  up."  It  was 
an  evidence  of  weak-mindedness  that  she  hated  him  as 
she  did,  for  she  was  certain  that  her  feeling  for  him  was 
nothing  short  of  hatred  ;  if  she  were  her  old  independent 
self,  his  behavior  and  accomplishments  would  be  nothing 
to  her  one  way  or  the  other  ;  he  could  read  books  and 
look  superior  till  he  dropped  into  his  grave,  for  all  she 
would  care.  But  as  long  as  she  was  not  quite  herself — 
she  wondered  whether  she  was  in  her  dotage  ! — why,  the 
thing  to  do  was  to  pull  herself  together  and  be  as  much 
like  herself  as  possible. 

Whenever  she  thought  of  Hulse's  manner  on  that  day 
at  the  gate,  she  was  filled  with  such  rebellion  as  a  high- 
mettled  horse  feels  against  the  hand  that  would  force  the 
bit  between  its  teeth  and  lead  it  away.  Not  that  he  had 


THE  VALLZ  V  OF  If  A  VlLAtf.  \  3  5 

made  any  attempt  to  subdue  her,  or  was  likely  to  do  so  ; 
she  would  like  to  catch  him  at  it ;  it  was  the  secret  assur 
ance  she  had  that  if  he  did  attempt  such  a  thing,  he  would 
succeed, — at  least  to  the  extent  of  making  her  feel  small 
and  weak.  The  look  of  the  man  left  among  her  vagrant 
ideas  a  sense  of  power  that  worried  and  exasperated  her. 
The  thought  of  what  he  might  do  with  her  made  her  feel 
as  if  floating  helplessly  in  strong  infinite  waters  ;  he 
seemed  a  keen  elemental  force,  capable  of  working  a  will 
resistlessly  and  pitilessly — an  electric  flash  with  a  con 
sciousness.  He  thrilled  her  with  a  sort  of  suspense,  as 
if  he  were  that  mysterious  interval  between  a  cause  and 
its  effect.  Maria  could  have  expressed  nothing  of  this, 
but  she  had  a  vivid  longing  to  follow  him,  to  watch  the 
outcome  of  such  electric  intensity,  to  discover  on  what 
he  expended  his  conserved  force  and  fire.  It  was  more 
than  woman's  curiosity  with  her;  it  was  a  dreadful 
fatality.  She  could  not  free  herself  from  the  thought  of 
him.  He  made  night  hideous  by  visiting  her  dreams. 
Once  she  dreamed  that  she  was  wandering  alone  in  a 
desert,  and  the  moon  was  shining  with  ghostly  steadiness 
in  a  black  sky  ;  and  as  she  walked  she  stumbled  upon  the 
trunkless,  bloody  head  of  a  man,  and  bending  down  saw, 
by  the  wan  light,  Hulse's  eyes  glaring  up  at  her  with 
vacant,  burning  pertinacity. 

And,  indeed,  Hulse  might  have  puzzled  and  haunted 
one  more  accustomed  to  psychic  wonders  than  Maria. 
His  movements  contradicted  his  eyes,  for  his  demeanor 
was  quiet,  even  subdued;  the  lava-heat  was  all  within, 
but  thus  more  terrible  because  its  ebullitions  could  not  be 
calculated  on.  What  was  known  of  the  daily  habits  of 
his  life  tightened  the  grasp  which  his  appearance  took  on 
the  imagination.  He  lived  alone,  spoke  little  to  those  he 
met,  and  apparently  promised  as  little  to  himself  as  to 
others.  He  acknowledged  no  claims  and  took  no  notice 


136  2tf  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

of  other  souls  except  at  a  distance.  Yet  it  was  plain  he 
felt  no  pride  in  maintaining  this  spiritual  solitude,  and 
found  no  compensation  in  anything  for  the  hopelessness 
of  living.  He  had  worn  his  life  to  a  rag  which  he  did 
not  throw  away  because  the  effort  was  too  much  trouble. 
If  you  had  an  imagination,  you  would  picture  him  with 
the  traits  of  a  Druid  priest, — problematic  qualities  sug 
gesting  a  divine  calling  degraded  by  infernal  practices  ; 
he  was  like  one  who  has  talked  with  God  face  to  face  and 
afterward  fallen  to  an  abject,  inglorious  destiny. 

Maria  longed  to  show  her  contempt  for  him,  to  prove 
that  she  was  not  so  despicable  as  she  had  appeared  that  day. 
She  longed  for  an  opportunity  to  convince  him  that  she 
was  not  to  be  consigned  unresistingly  to  a  corner  by  any 
lordly  opinion  of  his.  Her  pride  in  her  superior  strength 
of  character  was  of  too  substantial  a  growth  to  shrink  at 
once  and  die  out  at  an  adverse  breath  of  criticism  ;  but  in 
spite  of  assuring  herself  to  the  contrary,  that  pride  was  un 
dergoing  important  modifications.  It  had  received  a  shock 
which  deadened  it  a  little, — just  enough  to  make  it  want 
to  appear  livelier  than  ever.  The  change  was  not  in  her 
nature,  but  in  the  conditions  of  her  nature  ;  she  felt  it  as 
subtly  and  with  such  dread  as  she  would  have  felt  the 
first  doubt  of  her  sanity.  She  told  herself  over  and  over 
that  she  cared  nothing  for  what  Hulse  thought  of  her,  but 
in  her  soul  she  realized  that  her  resistance  to  his  estimate 
was  only  a  childish  makeshift,  a  puerile  evasion  of  the 
bitter  truth  that  she  must,  soon  or  late,  make  some  sort 
of  open  confession  of  his  mastery.  But  she  would  make 
no  confession  yet.  She  had  failed  to  assert  herself  as  she 
ought  to  have  done  when  Hulse  stood  talking  with  Billy 
at  the  gate.  No  matter.  There  were  other  days  coming, 
she  told  herself  angrily  ;  it  was  not  too  late  yet.  Failure 
acts  either  as  an  anodyne  or  a  stimulant, — it  always  acted 
as  the  latter  on  Maria.  She  worked  herself  into  a  great 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI L All.  137 

passion  imagining  what  she  would  say  to  him  the  next 
time  she  met  him.  She  hated  herself  when  she  remem 
bered  the  moment  of  relenting  in  which  she  almost  be 
lieved  he  had  not  seen  her  that  day.  He  had  seen  her  ; 
she  was  sure  of  it  now, — he  had  seen  her  as  he  saw  the 
gate-post  and  the  broken  wheelbarrow  out  by  the  fence, 
settling  her  value  in  the  scale  of  things  with  one  glance  of 
his  all-comprehending  eyes.  The  gall  of  his  indifference 
left  a  bitter  flavor  in  her  thoughts  always.  Though  she 
knew  next  to  nothing  of  the  ways  of  civilization,  she  di 
vined  instinctively  that  his  indifference  resulted  from  un 
consciously  employing  the  standards  of  polite  society  for 
measuring  a  barbarian, — a  process  which  consigned  her 
at  once  to  a  position  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  social  stra 
tum.  He  employed  the  standard  unconsciously  ;  therein 
consisted  the  prime  cause  of  Maria's  resentment, — he  did 
not  know  that  he  had  passed  judgment  on  her*  at  all. 
She  would  not  have  been  so  angry  had  he  made  her  feel 
his  power  by  a  direct  effort  of  his  will ;  she  could  have 
screamed  defiance  at  him  then  and  hooted  his  opinion  out 
of  existence  ;  besides,  a  conscious  effort  on  his  part  would 
have  implied  certain  strong  qualities  of  her  own  to  call 
forth  such  effort.  But  this  indifference  was  unbearable.  • 
Well !  she  promised  that  she  would  show  him  yet  that  she 
was  a  very  positive  existence  of  bone,  muscle  and  nerve 
which  no  pre-judgment  of  his  could  metamorphose  into  a 
nonentity.  She  dramatized  herself  standing  before  him  in 
strong  self-assertion,  wagging  her  head  and  overwhelm 
ing  him  with  a  torrent  of  loud-mouthed  scorn.  She  went 
about  her  work  with  contracted  brows,  studying  contemp 
tuous  things  to  say  to  him.  Anarchy  in  time  makes  laws 
for  itself,  and  after  a  little  Maria  settled  into  comparative 
quiet  under  the  soothing  assurance  that  when  she  met 
Hulse  again,  she  would  be  ready  for  him.  She  did  not 
speculate  on  what  her  sensations  after  the  battle  might  be. 


138  /Ar  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

ONE  afternoon  Mrs.  Pugsley  and  her  two  daughters  were 
sitting  in  the  room  that  faced  the  river.  They  had  yielded 
to  the  flaccid  silence  which  fell  upon  them  habitually  when 
left  for  a  considerable  time  together.  Maud  Eliza  was 
nursing  her  knee  with  vacant  industry,  meanwhile  sway 
ing  her  body  back  and  forth  and  keeping  her  eyes  fast 
ened  upon  a  knot-hole  in  the  floor  as  if  that  phenomenon 
were  an  immediate  and  all-absorbing  object  of  study. 
Maria  was  darning  stockings  and  the  moist  woman  lay  quite 
still  on  her  blankets  under  one  of  the  windows,  enjoying 
that  irresponsible  blank  comfort  which  is  a  habit  with  peo 
ple  whose  lives  have  been  rendered  shapeless  by  idleness. 
Mrs.  Pugsley  was  more  comfortable  in  Havilah  than  she 
had  been  for  years  before,  and  it  may  be  said  to  her  credit 
that  she  was  more  cheerful,  in  a  manner  too  ;  but  her 
manner  was  peculiar  and  she  would  still  have  produced  on 
susceptible  strangers  the  effect  of  long  continued  rainy 
weather.  She  still  had  spells  of  purposeless  weeping  in 
which  she  took  pains  to  inform  her  family  that  she  was 
not  complaining  of  her  lot ;  and  she  admonished  her 
daughters  daily  to  consider  how  happily  she  was  married 
and  to  go  and  do  likewise.  Once  she  became  violently 
figurative  and  told  them  that  "if  they  was  to  take  a  fine- 
tooth  comb  'n'  scratch  the  world  over  with  it,  they  couldn't 
find  Another  man  like  her  Ephraim,"  and  presently  she  fell 
to  commiserating  herself  as  "a  no  'count critter  as  never 
had  no  joy  nor  comfort,  'n'  the  world  allus  trod  on," 
Maria  understood  perfectly  that  her  mother  was  as  happy 
as  it  was  in  her  nature  to  be,  and  always  spoke  to  her 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  139 

cheerfully.  She  was  very  patient  with  her  mother.  She 
had  located  her  mother's  odd  tastes  very  accurately  and 
knew  just  where  to  put  her  finger  on  them.  We  are  all 
little  earths  marked  over  with  meridians  and  parallels  on 
which  our  peculiarities  are  easily  located. 

In  her  long  years  of  nomadic  improvidence  Mrs.  Pugs- 
ley  had  almost  forgotten  to  dream  of  the  luxury  of  a 
home,  and  now  that  she  had  all  at  once  stumbled  into  one 
which  answered  her  ideal  requirements,  it  is  probable 
that,  in  spite  of  her  frequent  low  spirits,  no  Roman  volupt 
uary  ever  felt  more  supremely  contented,  stretched  full 
length  under  a  green  arbutus,  quaffing  wine.  The  digni 
ty  of  living  under  a  roof  caused  her  at  times  to  assume  an 
air  of  sentimental  benignity  such  as  familiarity  with  lux 
ury  may  be  supposed  to  produce.  And  frequently  she 
would  sit  up  among  her  blankets  with  a  feeble  assumption 
of  the  duties  of  motherhood  and  for  a  few  moments  give 
indiscriminate  orders  to  everybody  with  the  importance 
of  a  woman  of  exalted  social  standing  who  has  many 
claims  on  her  attention  ;  or  she  would  be  quite  still  for 
two  or  three  hours  with  the  introspective  look  of  one  who 
has  gazed  too  long  into  the  deep  stream  of  life,  and  finally 
rouse  herself  to  express  a  solemn  opinion  of  the  dinner  or 
the  weather. 

Outside,  the  big  valley  seems  conscious  of  its  beauty 
in  the  spring's  bridal  garments.  It  is  a  flash  of  bright 
coloring,  an  outline  of  marvelous  forms.  The  pines 
on  the  foothills  are  mixed  indiscriminately  with 
their  shadows,  the  young  cottonwoods  rise  like  ex 
plosions  of  green  spray.  One  of  the  nearer  foothills 
is  as  smooth  and  round  and  softly-tinted  as  a  woman's 
cheek.  The  river  flows  under  the  trees  in  the  faint, 
tender  sunshine  which  touches  all  shadowed  water,  but 
a  little  further  on  it  flashes  into  light,  eager  to  prove 
its  power  to  unite  heaven  and  earth  in  its  cLear  current. 


140  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

As  you  walk,  your  feet  crush  through  worlds  of  violets 
and  pale  blue  iris  blossoms,  till  you  can  fancy  you  are 
walking  in  the  sky.  The  sunshine  affects  you  like  Roman 
goblets  of  Massic  wine.  Birds,  giddy  with  the  sunshine, 
hang  over  the  earth  in  an  ecstasy  of  thanksgiving,  going 
in  and  out  of  the  blue  sky  at  will.  Here  a  crystal  spring 
flashes  among  long  grasses  like  a  girl's  bright  eyes  from 
beneath  dishevelled  hair.  A  distant  dome  gleams  in  the 
sun  like  a  great  pale  emerald  ;  on  the  far  mountains  the 
pines  are  a  faint  growth  of  fungus  ;  the  clouds  are  angels' 
wings,  and  every  where,  everywhere,  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  valley,  are  flowers,  nothing  but  flowers, 
you  think,  like  materialized  sunbeams.  It  is  Eden,  planted 
by  God's  hand.  You  float  on  the  slow,  monotonous  music 
of  the  river,  which  has  the  stately  movement  and  rhythm 
of  clouds.  You  are  rejuvenated,  illuminated,  transfigured. 
The  sweet  growth  which  throbs  through  nature's  rapid 
pulses  becomes  a  part  of  your  spiritual  evolution,  and 
you  long  to  sing  with  reverent  joy,  like  a  child  at  play  in  the 
sunshine.  God  is  love,  and  this  life  He  has  given  us  is  the 
highest  expression  of  that  love  ! 

From  the  two  windows  of  the  front  room  of  the  Pugsley 
cabin,  a  magnificent  view  of  the  valley  and  the  mountains 
could  be  obtained.  The  window  under  which  Mrs.  Pugs- 
ley  lay  looked  toward  the  near  foothills  where  the  sun- 
touched  pines  rose  from  the  shadows  like  smoke  from 
unseen  chimneys.  The  afternoon,  was  well  advanced, 
yet  the  mist  still  hung  on  one  rounded  summit  there  and 
stirred  in  the  wind  as  lightly  as  a  layer  of  thistle-down. 
The  long,  warm  sunbeams  made  the  air  palpitate  with  the 
sweet,  vivid  heat  of  spring;  the  sky  was  blue,  with  here 
and  there  a  light  pellucid  ripple  of  cirrus  cloud  ;  a  flock  oi 
white  doves  circled  over  the  cbttonwoods  by  the  river, 
beating  upward  with  wings  whose  shadows  were  like 
light  On  the  far  edge  of  the  valley  the  mountains  loomed 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  141 

black  above  their  talus  of  white  cloud  ;  higher  up  they 
turned  to  white  again  and  clung  to  the  sky  like  a  purer 
growth  of  it.  There  is  something  in  these  high  horizons 
which  is  indescribably  sweet  and  tender,  which  accom 
panies,  but  is  distinct  from,  the  rugged  force  of  mountain 
summits.  It  can  be  compared  only  to  something  spiritual 
and  holy.  It  is  the  communion  of  old  friendship,  the  full 
silence  of  long-reciprocated  love.  The  sky  and  the  moun 
tains  know  and  love  each  other ;  they  have  lain  face  to 
face  and  heart  to  heart  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

Maria  liked  the  garrulous  reserve  of  the  river,  and  it 
was  as  an  unbearable  discord  that  she  suddenly  heard  a 
singer  in  a  saloon  not  far  off  lift  up  his  voice  and  apos 
trophize  Jenny  to  wait  till  the  clouds  roll  by. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  opened  her  eyes  and  listened.  She  had 
nothing  to  do, — nothing  even  to  think,  one  might  add, — 
and  was  disposed  to  yield  to  the  persuasion  of  lyric  in 
fluences. 

"  What  a  purty  voice  that  air  feller's  got, "she  remarked 
with  sentiment.  "The  tune's  ruther  too  much  like  the 
oppery,  though,  'n'  I  never  went  much  on  them  oppery 
tunes.  But  it  's  reel  sweet,  his  voice  is.  It  'minds  me  o' 
the  times  the  fellers  used  to  come  a-serenadin'  o'  me  up  to 
the  Bar." 

Maria  shrugged  her  shoulders  and  went  on  darning. 

"  Them  was  gay  times,  gay  times,"  continued  the  moist 
woman  in  the  pattering,  gosling-like  voice  she  had  lately 
assumed  when  recurring  to  the  days  of  her  youth.  ."How 
the  fellers  used  to  come  a-turkeyin'  aroun'  after  me  in  them 
days  !  'N'  how  we  used  to  set  aroun'  on  the  door-steps, 
laffin'  'n'  singin  till  midnight  'n'  past !  'N'  oh,  the  fun  we 
had, — folks  d'  know  how  to  have  fun  nowheres  but  to 
Swipes's  Bar,  seems  to  me." 

The  song  continued. 

"Why  don't  ye  jine  in  'n'  sing  along  o' 'im,  Maria? 


142  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  YILAH. 

'N'  Maud  Elizy,  too  ?  /  would  myself  if  didn't  have  sech 
a  rippin'  pain  in  my  side.  If  they's  anything  I  like  to 
hear  'n'  reely  enjoy  'n'  feel  good  over,  it  's  a  man  'n' 
woman  singin'  together.  Jine  in — jine  in — ye  can  sing  !  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  can  sing  if  yell  git  a  crow  'n'  a  bull-frog  to 
help  me, "said  Maria. 

" Maud  Elizy  '11  help  ye,"  said  the  provident  mother. 
"  Won't  ye,  Maud  Elizy  ?" 

"  Thankee,  /  ain't  no  crow  nor  bull-frog,"  responded 
that  lively  damsel  with  unexpected  acuteness.  "  'N'  I 
don't  'pose  to  be  used  fer  one  ! " 

"Well,  go  on  'n'  try  it,  anyhow,  Maria.  Ye  know  them 
words, — I've  heerd  ye  sing  'em.  I've  been  longin'  fer  a 
coon's  age  fer  some  music.  Strike  in  'n'  mebbe  he'll  sing 
it  over  again  with  ye !  " 

"/sing?"  cried  Maria  with  a  touch  of  impatience. 
"Ye  know's  well's  I  do 't  if  I  was  to  sing  fer  sour  beans  I 
couldn't  git  a  smell  !  " 

"I'd  like  to  hear  ye,  I've  been  longin'  fer  music,"  sighed 
Mrs.  Pugsley  in  a  manner  which  showed  that  her  aspira 
tions  for  the  unattainable  were  mounting  in  proportion  as 
her  material  wants  were  supplied.  Then  she  added  in 
one  of  her  desultory  moods  of  maternal  instruction.  * '  But 
I  won't  urge  ye.  'Tain't  no  use  to  urge  folks — I've  noticed 
that.  'N'  I've  tried  to  teach  my  young  'uns  the  same  idee. 
'Tain't  in  human  nater,  Maria,  to  want  to  be  urged ;  Maud 
Elizy,  remember  that. "  And  she  adjusted  herself  on  the 
blankets  with  the  air  of  a  tireless  student  of  humanity  who 
has  imparted  the  results  of  long  experience. 

Having  disposed  of  the  music  and  delivered  herself  of 
this  sage  advice,  she  turned  to  other  subjects.  Hers  was 
a  facile  mind  in  which  ideas  glided  easily  past  each  other, 
like  the  molecules  of  a  liquid. 

"  It's  very  comf'table  here,  Mariar, "  she  remarked,  with 
a  consciousness  of  her  new  and  advantageous  position  in 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  143 

society.  "  Leastways  it  would  be,  if  I  could  fergit  my 
side.  I  hain't  had  so  much  to  be  thankful  fer  sence  Dad 
run  under,  up  there  to  the  Bar.  'Tain't  no  more  'n  I  de 
serve,  though,  after  all  I've  gone  through  'n'  put  up  with. 
I've  earned  it,  I  can  say  that,  honest  'nough.  I  never 
done  nothin'  not  to  have  things.  T  wa'n't  my  fault 't  we 
didn't  show  off  more  in  the  world.  O'  late  years  I'd  sort 
o'  give  up  all  hopes  o'  ever  'mountin'  to  anything,  though 
I  used  to  calc'late  on  it  when  we  was  fust  married.  This 
'ere  life  in  a  house  o'  our  own  is  jes'  'bout  what  I  reckoned 
it  'ud  be — 'tain't  nothin'  but  what  I  was  used  to  in  my 
thoughts. "  And  she  sighed  with  a  half-realization  of  the 
fact  that  an  attained  ambition  is  nothing  more  than  a 
repetition  of  memories; 

"  'Tain't  our  house,  nohow,"  put  in  Maria.  "  It's 
Billy's, — we  ain't  got  no  call  to  speak  o'  it  like  it  b'longed 
to  us." 

"  Oh,  well,  it's  all  the  same,"  was  the  old  woman's 
answer.  "  He'll  be  in  the  fam'ly  'fore  long  hisself. 
Don't  ye  see  he's  gone  on  ye,  Mariar — clean  gone?  'N' 
o'  course  ye'll  git  'im  if  ye  can.  Ephraim  says  his  pros- 
pecks  is  way-up. " 

Maria  did  not  answer,  but  she  looked  as  if  she  con 
sidered  herself  capable  of  deciding  that  matter  for  herself. 


144  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

ALL  at  once  Maud  Eliza  commenced  tittering. 

"  He'll  make  a  purty  addition  onto  the  fam'ly,  Billy 
Bling  will,"  she  said.  "  Don't  ye  reckon  so,  Mariar?" 

"  I  reckon  he  looks  's  well  's  what  we  do/'  replied 
Maria,  jerking  her  big  needle  through  the  stocking  she 
was  darning.  "  We  don't  none  o'  us  han'sim  much,  I 
take  it." 

.    Maud  Eliza  held  her  nose  between  her  thumb  and  fore 
finger  and  then  "let  go  "  with  a  tremendous  snort. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  cried,  gurgling  and  strangling  in  her 
hilarity,  "he'll  make  a  monstrous  purty  addition,  he  will. 
Scrubby  red  moustaches  is  a  addition  onto  any  fam'ly- 
The  Pugsleys  '11  be  proud,  they  will !  " 

"  Well,  they  orter,"  said  Maria,  briefly. 

"  Oh,  they  will  !  "  repeated  Maud  Eliza.  She  swayed 
back  and  forth  on  the  candle-box  which  she  had  turned 
on  end  for  a  seat,  and  then  in  another  sudden  explosive 
snort  lost  her  balance  and  rolled  over  upon  the  floor,  still 
tittering  uninterruptedly. 

"Well,  if  ye  ain't  a  bird!"  said  Maria,  ironically. 
"  Ye  never  missed  a  note,  I  vow  !  " 

Maud  Eliza  collected  herself  and  sat  up  on  the  floor  to 
secure  herself  from  any  further  treachery  on  the  part  of 
gravity. 

"  Well,  when's  the  weddin'  goin'  to  be?"  she  asked  as 
soon  as  she  could  stop  giggling  sufficiently  to  speak. 

"  Ask  me  no  questions  V  I'll  tell  ye  no  lies,"  replied 
Maria.  "  Ye  won't  have  no  finger  in  that  pie,  I  can  tell 
ye,"  she  added,  positively. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 4  5 

"  I'll'  bet  ye'll  be  two  awful  clinks  when  ye  wunst  git 
reg'larly  spoony  on  each  other,"  said  Maud  Eliza  with 
another  series  of  titters. 

"  Oh,j/0#  know  all  'bout  that/'  retorted  her  sister. 

"  Yes,"  admitted  Maud  Eliza,  with  an  engaging  snort, 
"I've  got  that  down  fine.  I  reckon/' she  supplemented 
with  some  pride,  "I  know  how  to  spoon  's  well  's  any 
gal  in  Californy." 

"When  Mariar  gits  married,"  put  in  Mrs.  Pugsley, 
"  she  can  do  jes'  what  she  likes.  She  can  turn  Billy 
round  'n'  round  'er  finger,  that's  plain  'nough.  'N'  that  '11 
suit  'er." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  answered  Maria,  "that'll  suit  me.  They 
ain't  nothin'  I  like  to  do  's  well  's  to  do  what  I  like." 

"  I  hope  ye'll  be  a  good  wife,"  continued  the  moist 
woman,  falling  into  another  didactic  maternal  mood. 
(t  I'm  sure  ye've  had  examples  in  me.  'N'  they  ain't  no 
use  bein'  otherways.  It's  the  least  a  wooman  can  do." 

"  Well,  I  d'  know,"  answered  Maria,  biting  off  her  yarn 
and  drawing  another  thread  through  her  needle.  "  /  ain't 
got  no  wish  to  make  myself  so  pious  's  to  feel  the  wings 
a-sproutin'  on  my  shoulders — not  in  this  world.  That 
ain't  the  kind  o'  hollyhock  I  am." 

"  Billy's  a  nice  feller,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

"  Yes,  he's  a  nice  feller.  I  wonder  't  he  stays  'ere  in 
Havilah  'mongst  all  these  scrubs.  He's  too  good  to  'sociate 
with  'em." 

* '  He'll  prob'ly  build  'nother  house  in  camp  '11'  let  us 
stay  in  this'un.  'Tain't  no  more 'n  fair't  he  should,  after 
all 't  I've  gone  through.  Yer  pa  'n'  Maud  Elizy  ?n'  me  can 
come  over  'n'  stay  with  ye  two -three  weeks  to  a  time. 
It  'ud  be  great  times  to  have  two  houses  like  that  to  wunst 
V  go  from  one  to  t'other  'n'  stay  's  long 's  ye  wanted  to. " 

The  women  were  silent  for  a  little  while,  Maud  Eliza 
swaying  herself  back  and  forth  on  the  floor  with  her  eyes 

10 


146  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILA1I, 

fixed  once  more  upon  the  knot-hole.  Maria  had  made  up 
her  mind  not  to  get  angry  at  the  turn  conversation  had 
taken,  no  matter  what  was  said. 

Pausing  for  a  moment  in  her  work,  her  eyes  fell  upon 
the  rose- vine  outside  the  window. 

"  How  putty  them  roses  is  !  "  she  says.  "  The  smell  o' 
em  sorter  goes  through  'n'  through  me  on  a  day  like  this. " 

"  What  roses?  "  asked  Mrs.  Pugsley,  languidly.  "Oh, 
ye  mean  them  things  out  o'  the  winder. " 

"Yes,  Billy  fastened 'em  up,  ye  know,  a  day  or  two 
after  we  got  'ere. " 

"Billy,  Billy,  Billy!"  mimicked  Maud  Eliza.  "It's 
nothin'  but  Billy  from  daylight  to  dark,  till  sometime  I 
think  we're  livin'  with  a  lot  o'  goats  'n'ye're  callin'  one  o' 
'em.  If  my  stummick  wa'n't  strong,  I'm  sure  I  couldn't 
stan'it."  She  ended  with  her  customary  snert. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  shook  her  head  reprovingly. 

"Ye  mustn't  make  fun  o'  'er,  Maud  Elizy,"  she  said  in 
admonitory  tones.  "Ye  d'  know  how  soon  ye'll  git  gone 
on  some  feller  yerself,  'n'  then  ye  wouldn't  like  to  have 
folks  a-worryirijyou.  Cert'nly  Mariar  has  a  right  to  speak 
o'  Billy  'n'  the  roses.  It's  only  proper  's  long's  he  helped 
'er  fix  the  vine." 

"If  they  should  be  a  dance  or  anything  the  roses 'ud  be 
nice  to  wear  in  my  hair,"  said  Maud  Eliza  meditatively. 

Mrs.  Pugsley's  vaporous  features  were  illuminated  by  a 
ray  of  satisfaction. 

"D'ye  hear  that,  Mariar!"  she  said.  "That's  jes'  the 
way  I  used  to  feel  when  I  was  a  gal.  Maud  Elizy 's  Swipes 
all  over  ! " 

"Yes,  she's  Swipes  all  over,"  admitted  Maria,  grimly. 

There  was  another  silence  of  a  few  moments,  broken 
only  by  the  noise  of  the  river  and  the  whirr  of  the  doves 
returning  over  the  cottonwoods. 

"I had  'nother  one  o'my  dreams  las'  night,"  the  moist 


A/  THE    VALLEY  OF  H A  VI L  AIL  I47 

woman  finally  said,  writhing  on  her  blankets  and  adjust 
ing  her  skirts.  (This  process  of  adjustment  was  by  no 
means  a  simple  one,  as  the  crinoline  promised  by  Billy 
had  become  an  accomplished  fact).  ' '  They's  suthin  goin' 
to  happen.  I  allus  know  they  's  troubles  a-brewin'  when 
I  commence  to  dream." 

"What  was  it  'bout  ?  "  asked  Maria. 

"W'y,  it  was  'bout  Billy.  Talkin'  'bout  'm  was  what 
brought  it  into  my  mind.  I  thought  we  was  all  o'  us  'ere 
in  this  room,  you  'n'  me  'n'  Maud  Elizy  'n'  yer  pa,  'n'  ye 
was  gittin'  dinner  'n'  the  rest  o'  us  was  settin'  'round  the 
way  we  allus  be.  'N'  says  I,  '  What  be  we  a-goin'  to  have 
fer  dinner? '  perfectly  natral,  as  ye  may  say.  'N','  says 
you,  l  Greens.'  *  Greens  ? '  says  I,  's  joyful  's  could  be,  fer 
I  allus  dearly  loved  greens  from  way-back.  '  Mariar,' 
says  I,  '  I'll  cook  the  greens. '  'N'  I  got  up  off  n  my  blan 
kets  'n'  says,  '  We'll  bile  'em  with  that  air  ham-bone  what's 
hangin'  up  in  the  woodshed. '  '  No, '  says  you,  *  We'll  save 
that  till  nex'  time.  I've  got  suthin  better  to  cook  'em  with 
to-day.'  'N'  I  looked  into  the  kittle  'twas  simmerin'  away 
on  the  stove,  'n'  there  was  Billy  Bling  in  there,  a-bilin'  'n' 
a-stewin';  'n'  every  minute  or  two  his  face  'ud  come  up 
to  the  top  ?n'  look  at  us  reproachful,  while  we  was  starin' 
into  the  kittle,  'n?  then  sink  again.  'N'  ye  give  a  sort  o' 
screech  'n'  says,  '  Oh,  I  didn't  think  he'd  look  like  that  or  I 
wouldn't  a-done  it !  Let's  put  in  more  greens  so 's  to  cover 
'm  up.'  'N;  we  put  the  greens  in,  but  it  didn't  do  no  good. 
Every  minute  or  two  the  bubblin'  water  'ud  fetch  'is  face  to 
the  top,  'n'  he'd  stare  at  us  in  that  orfle  gashly  way  'n'  then 
go  under  agin'.  'N'  by  'm  by  I  woke  up.  I  d'  know 
what  it  means,  but  it's  suthin'.  Ineverknowed  myself  to 
dream  like  that  fer  nothin'." 

Maria  shuddered. 

"  I  don't  b'lieve  in  dreams,"  she  said. 

'  '  Well,  I  do, "  declared  the  moist  woman.    Her  thoughts, 


148  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  II A  VI L  AH. 

which  were  evidently  in  a  liquid  state,  flowed  readily  in 
to  any  channel  that  was  made  for  them,  and  she  rambled 
on  in  an  inconsequent  way.  "That  'minds  me  to  ask 
what  'twas't  Billy  sent  over-to-day  in  that  air  brown  pa 
per  package.  D'  I  hear  ye  say  chicken  ?  " 

"  Yes — 'n'  apples  for  pies." 

"We'll  have 'em  for  dinner  to-morrer,  won't  we?" 

"  Yes,  I'm  goin'  to  ask  Billy  to  come  down  'n'  eat  with 
us  if  1  see  him 'fore  then.  If  he  furnishes  the  grub,  .he 
orter  help  eat  it." 

The  chicken  was  a  sweet  smell  in  Mrs.  Pugsley's  nos 
trils. 

"  I  like  the  gizzard  best/'  said  she.  "I  allus  took  the 
gizzard  when  we  had  chicken  up  there  to  the  Bar.  Dad 
used  to  tell  me  it  was  the  same  with  him  back  in  Arkan- 
saw  when  he  was  young.  That  must  be  a  great  country 
back  there,  Mariar.  Ye  orter  a-heerd  dad  tell  'bout  it. 
He'd  go  on  by  the  hour,  jes's  interestin'.  I've  allus  felt 
bad  't  I  wan't  borned  there.  It's  a  splendid  country,  ev 
erything  right  to  a  feller's  hand,  'n'  folks  so  sociable  like.'' 
She  thought  of  these  days  with  something  of  the  regretful 
envy  with  which  the  later  Romans  regarded  their  ances 
tors  under  Augustus.  "  If  we  was  ever  to  git  able  to  'ford 
it,  I'd  like  to  go  back  there  'n'see  things.  Mebby  Billy  '11 
whack  up,  by'm  by — he'll  be  sure  to  have  money  'nough 
fer  anything,  'n  I  don't  reckon  he'll  be  stingy.  Who's  that 
com  in'  into  the  gate  ?" 

Maria  glanced  out  of  the  window. 

"Good Lord,  it's  that  Hulse  !  "  she  said  faintly. 

"The  feller  't  his  hosses  pulled  us  out  o'  the  mud  that 
day? — the  one  that  sorter doir't  look  to  hum  in  hisself  ?" 
asked  Mrs.  Pugsley  in  her  vaporous  way.  "  Well,  you 
go  to  the  door — but  wait  till  I  fix  myself."  She  sat  up  on 
her  blankets,  adjusted  her  gown  carefully,  taking  care 
that  the  crinoline  should  show  through  her  thin  calico 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  149 

skirt ;  smoothed  her  hair  after  moistening  her  palm  with 
her  tongue,  and  put  on  an  expression  as  if  sitting  to  an 
artist. 

At  first  something  like  a  sickness  came  over  Maria, — a 
chill  feeling  of  expansion,  as  if  she  were  passing  into  so 
lution  ;  then  her  heart  gave  a  great  leap  and  her  strength 
came  back.  She  became  conscious  of  a  stage  of  aggre 
gation  in  the  process  of  thinking.  The  slight  which  Hulse 
had  put  upon  her,  her  longings  for  retaliation  heaped 
themselves  up  in  her  ;  she  was  not  afraid  of  him  now — she 
longed  to  meet  him.  Her  anger  rose  with  a  resistless 
swell — she  felt  as  if  she  were  crouching  for  a  spring  that 
would  destroy  him.  She  laid  her  work  down  on  the  floor 
by  the  box  on  which  she  was  seated,  and  stuck  her  darn 
ing-needle  firmly  into  the  window  ledge  ;  then  she  rose 
and  squared  herself  toward  the  door  with  her  hands  on 
her  hips. 

She  was  ready  for  him. 


150 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  H A  VI L All. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

As  Hulse  came  up  to  the  Pugsley  cabin,  he  did  not  raise 
his  eyes  until  he  stood  on  the  veranda.  He  might  have 
told  Maria  his  errand — for  he  had  come  on  an  errand— 
and  gone  away  as  ignorant  of  her  existence  as  before, 
had  he  not  noticed  her  aggressive  attitude  and  the  warlike 
expression  of  her  face. 

He  saw  before  him  a  heavy-footed,  broad-shouldered, 
strong-bodied  young  woman  with  an  honest,  fierce  face, 
black  hair  and  clear  eyes  of  uncertain  color,  in  which 
there  was  more  than  a  hint  of  the  freedom  of  wild  things ; 
— a  woman  with  a  keen,  incisive  face  and  a  half-mannish 
beauty,  asserting  in  every  limb  and  feature  her  conscious 
ability  to  take  care  of  herself. 

His  look  of  casual  survey  intensified  into  a  gaze  of  slow 
scrutiny,  into  which  in  turn  gradually  grew  an  element  of 
curiosity, — nothing  indicative  of  close  observation,  how 
ever, — only  a  little  of  the  awakening  interest  one  is  forced 
to  feel  in  indifferent  objects  which  press  too  closely  to  be 
passed  unobserved.  His  marvellous  eyes, — they  seemed 
never  to  have  looked  tenderly  into  other  eyes, — regarded 
her  with  a  slight  momentary  wonder,  but  his  notice  of  her 
implied  nothing  further  than  an  involuntary  discrimina 
tion  between  herself  and  one  of  an  inferior  race,  being 
hardly  more  personal  than  a  brief  mood  for  ethnographic 
study,  intended  possibly  to  correct  a  mistaken  meaning. 
A  very  superficial  observation  must  have  assured  Hulse, 
however,  of  the  present  meaning  of  Maria  Pugsley.  For 
at  that  moment  she  was  dominated  by  an  anger  which 
was  almost  a  thirst  for  slaughter ;  the  look  of  the  man 


ftf  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  5 1 

before  he  uttered  a  word  produced  on  her  the  effect  which 
the  sound  of  battle  has  on  an  old  war-horse. 

She  felt  herself  turning  pale.  Her  eyes  were  hot,  her 
lips  tremulous.  She  burst  all  at  once  into  angry  speech, 
resolved  not  to  undergo  the  bitterness  of  forestallment  if 
insults  were  to  be  uttered  or  contemptuous  treatment 
endured. 

"  We-ell !  "  she  cried,  breaking  the  monosyllable  in  two 
and  flinging  the  pieces  into  his  face.  "Who  beyou  ?' 

He  leaned  his  arm  leisurely  against  the  door-post  and 
looked  down  at  her — she  would  not  have  believed  that  he 
was  so  tall — as  if  he  were  watching  the  movements  of 
some  curious  insect. 

'  as  Blinghere?" 

She  had  never  heard  his  voice  distinctly  before,  and  it 
thrilled  her.  It  had  an  indescribable  vibrant  power :  it 
was  like  nervous  force  made  audible.  But  she  would  not 
yield  to  its  influence.  She  stiffened  her  muscles  as  if  at 
the  touch  of  a  whip. 

"  We-ell  !"  she  cried  in  a  harsh  voice,  like  the  clatter 
of  fire-irons.  "  If  ye  stan'  there  with  yer  fingers  in  yer 
mouth  till  /tell  ye  where  Bling  is,  they'll  grow  there  !  " 

Then  it  occurred  to  her  that  Hulse  was  not  standing 
with  his  fingers  in  his  mouth  and  that  her  remark  must 
have  sounded  very  flat  and  foolish — in  short,  very  like  a 
woman.  She  did  not  want  to  appear  like  a  woman,  but 
very  manly  and  all-subduing.  She  wished  she  could  think 
of  some  of  the  fine  things  she  had  planned  to  say  to  him. 
But  only  one  came  into  her  head,  and  that  was  the  very 
poorest  of  her  composing. 

"Some  folks  is  mighty  satisfied  with  theirselves,"  she 
cried  sarcastically.  "They  ain't  nothin'  so  satisfactory  s 
self-satisfaction,  'n'  a  man  can't  git  that  only  at  the  price 
o'  ignorance." 

Somehow  that  did  not  seem  quite  to  suit  the  occasion, 


152  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

either — it  sounded  disconnected  and  premeditated.  What 
if  he  should  guess  the  truth  that  she  considered  him  of 
sufficient  importance  to  prepare  speeches  for  him  before 
hand  ?  She  was  experiencing  the  humiliation  of  discover 
ing  that  she  was  capable  of  being  weak  where  she  in 
tended  to  be  strong,  and  that  altogether  she  was  hovering 
dangerously  close  to  the  verge  of  the  commonplace.  She 
determined  to  break  loose  from  her  preconceived  idea  of 
herself  and  let  her  rage  carry  her  whithersoever  it  would. 
That  would  be  the  best  way.  She  pulled  herself  together 
and  commenced  bravely. 

"So  ye  want  Bling,  do  ye?"  she  cried,  standing  very 
straight  and  trying  to  look  down  at  him.  ' '  We-ell  !  Won't 
ye  come  in  'n'  set  down  'n'  wait  in  the  piler  till  I  go  out  'n' 
hunt  'im  up  fer  ye  ?  Ye  better,  'n'  hold  yer  breath  till  I 
do  !  What  d'  ye  take  me  fer,  anyhow — a  June-bug  't  ain't 
ripe  ? " 

"  I  don't  understand/'  he  said,  looking  at  her  with 
vague  examination. 

"  I  don't  chaw  my  cabbage  twic't,"  she  snapped. 
"  Shakespeare  don't  repeat  'n'  don't  ye  fergit  it.  My 
'pinion  o'  you  is  'i  ye're  allus  askin'  a  heap  more  favers  o' 
folks  'n  ye're  willin'  to  let  'em  ask  tf  you.  Ye  try  to  work 
'em — that's  where  the  bug  lays  wiihjyou.  But  ye  won't 
git  me  to  repeat  what  I  say,  nor  go  a-sailin'  onto  the  street 
to  hunt  up  folks  fer  ye,  lemme  tell  ye  that !  " 

That  was  not  so  strongly  put  as  she  had  intended  it  to 
be,  and  she  had  a  misgiving  that  indications  of  idiocy 
might  be  discoverable  in  her,  as  made  manifest  by  exu 
berance  of  words  and  dearth  of  ideas.  But  she  began 
again  with  desperate  persistence. 

"So  ye  wanted  to  see  Bling,  did  ye?  Ye  did,  huh? 
Bling,  huh  ?  Ye  orter  be  learnt  to  call  a  gentleman  Mister, 
V  if  I'd  a-had  the  trainin'  o'  ye  I'd  a-seen  't  ye  done  it. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  153 

Bling,  huh  ?  Ye  orter  be  took  across!  somebody's  checked 
apron  'n'  paddled — that's  what  !  " 

She  was  better  satisfied  with  her  effort  this  time.  It 
must  make  him  feel  very  small  to  be  talked  to  like  a  little 
boy  in  that  way. 

But  if  he  felt  small  he  gave  no  signs  of  it.  There  was 
not  a  trace  of  emotion  of  any  kind  on  his  face  as  he 
asked  : 

" Then  he  isn't  here?" 

"  Don't  think/'  she  cried,  raising  her  voice  and  ignor 
ing  his  question,  "  't  /want  none  o'  yer  friendship,- — I'd 
scorn  it  if  ye  offered  it.  I  ain't,  one  o'  the  crawlin'  kind, 
/ain't.  Yer  high-fly  in'  ways  don't  go  down  with  me, — 
goin'  aroun'  with  yer  nose  in  the  air  a-sniffin'  like  ye  was 
a  puppy  'n'  had  a  rat's  nest  under  yer  nose  !  Style  ?  I 
reckon  that's  what  ye  call  style,  a-steppin'  high  'n'  lookin' 
down  on  folks.  But  if  I  had  sech  a  bilious  complexion  's 
what y oiive  got,  I'd  go  'n'  git  my  liver  half-soled,  *n'  not  be 
tryin'  to  put  on  airs.  I  won't  have  ye  givin*  me  none  o' 
yer  dirt,  lem'me  tell  ye  !  " 

Hulse  moved  his  hand  a  little  way  up  the  door-post,  but 
made  no  sign  of  going  away  or  otherwise  altering  his 
position. 

"  Do  you  know  where  he  is  ? "  he  inquired  in  a  louder 
voice,  as  if  addressing  a  deaf  person. 

11  Do  I  know  where  he  is?"  mimicked  Maria.  "I 
reckon  he's  where  he  b'longs,  which  is  more  'n'  some 
folks  can  say  o'  theirselves.  Seems  to  me  any  parrotic, 
cheese-headed  fool  might  a-seen  he  wan't'erea  hour  ago. 
Want  to  set  down  'n'  wait  fer  'im  ?  Reckon  I  can  keep 
the  room  comftable  warm  fer  ye  if  ye  do.  Come  in, 
come  in,  'n'  set  down  on  the  floor  'n'  be  frien'ly — I  feel 
jes'  like  givin'  ye  a  song  V  dance  the  rest  o'  the  afternoon. 
I  won't  mince  matters.  When  I  got  anything  to  say,  I 
jes'  march  up  square-toed  'n:  say  it — that's  me  ! " 


1 54  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

A  faint  expression  of  amusement  crept  into  Hulse's 
sombre  face. 

"You  seem  a  very  engaging  young  female,"  he  re 
marked.  "  Dickens  ought  to  have  got  hold  of  you.'' 

"  The  dickens  's  got  a  holt  o'jsou  a'ready, "  she  retorted. 
"  'N'  I  bet  he's  goin'  to  keep  his  grip,  too  !  " 

He  bowed,  and  when  he  lifted  his  face  she  saw  a  look 
there  which  she  would  not  have  believed  possible  on  his 
tragic  features.  He  was  smiling.  She  followed  him  out 
upon  the  veranda  as  he  passed  down  the  steps. 

"  If  I  was  you,"  she  shrieked,  wagging  her  head  as  she 
had  often  pictured  herself  doing,  and  wishing  that  he 
would  turn  so  as  to  see  how  scornful  she  looked,  "  If  I 
was  you  I'd  take  to  stump-speakin'  fer  the  nex'  'lection. 
If  ye'djes'  turn  up  yer  mug  V  empty  that  air  smile  out 
onto  the  public,  ye  could  do  anything  with  'em  ye  liked." 
She  returned  to  the  door  and  called  back  to  her  mother, 
loud  enough  for  him  to  hear,  "  Wa'n't  that  fun,  though, 
ma?  Didn't  I  give  it  to  'im  ?  D'ye  reckon  I'm  goin'  to 
have  any  sech  lookhV  cubs  's  he  is  a-comin'  'ere  'n' 
warmin'  their  coat-tails  at  my  fire?  Oh,  Lor',  I'm  's 
happy  's  ole  boots  ! "  And  she  commenced  to  sing  as 
loud  as  she  could  scream  : 

"  The  grasshopper  sat  on  the  railroad  track, 
Sing  polly-wolly -doodle  all  the  day  ! 

And  he  picked  his  teeth  with  a  carpet  tack, 
Sing  polly-wolly -doodle  all  the  day  ! 

Farewell,  farewell,  farewell  my  fairy  fay, 

I'm  going  home  to  see  my  Susiannah, 

Sing  polly-wolly -doodle  all  the  day  !  " 

Then  she  went  into  the  house  abruptly  and  took  up  her 
darning,  but  laid  it  down  again  without  taking  a  stitch. 
Her  hands  trembled  so  that  she  could  not  control  them. 
She  could  do  nothing  but  laugh — she  was  afraid  she  was 
going  to  cry  and  she  would  rather  have  died. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  j  5  5 

"  Well,  ye  did  give  it  to  'im,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pugsley, 
who  had  been  looking  on  with  a  neutral  expression. 

' '  Great  sufferin' !  "  put  in  Maud  Eliza.  l '  What  a  peelin' 
ye  did  give  'im  \  It  made  my  hair  pull  to  hear  ye  !  " 

"  Didn't  I  give  it  to  'im  ?  "  cried  Maria  with  wild  laugh 
ter.  "Oh,  ma,  ma,  ain't  I  a  pill?" 


1 56  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

IT  was  all  Maria  could  do  to  keep  back  the  tears.  She 
was  afraid  they  would  burst  forth  in  spite  of  her  and  make 
her  appear  weak  and  womanish  when  she  most  desired 
to  appear  strong  and  manly.  To  face  her  mother  and 
sister  and  listen  to  their  comments  on  the  affair, — mostly 
of  an  admiring  nature,  it  is  true,  but  in  Mrs.  Pugsley's 
case  flavored  with  a  doubt  as  to  the  propriety  of  such 
conduct  in  a  girl  whose  mother  had  been  a  Swipes  of 
Swipes's  Bar, — was  a  continuation  of  torment  not  long  to 
be  borne.  She  must  get  away  at  once  and  hide  where 
she  could  let  the  tears  come  unhindered.  She  was  just 
going  to  rush  out  into  the  woodshed  as  the  most  con 
venient  place  of  refuge,  when  she  was  arrested  by  the 
sound  of  voices  in  that  direction.  There  was  no  escape. 
It  was  Billy  and  her  father.  She  did  not  dare  to  run  away 
through  the*  front  door  for  they  would  be  sure  to  see  her 
and  call  her  back.  She  must  stay  and  face  it  through. 

"  Lord  help  me  !  "  she  prayed  to  herself,  hysterically. 
"  What'll  I  do— what'll  I  do  ?  " 

With  an  effort  which  was  like  a  wrench  to  strained  and 
bruised  muscles  she  forced  herself  to  be  calm  and  look 
toward  them  as  they  entered. 

"Ye  orter  a-been  'ere!"  screeched  Maud  Eliza,  still 
agitated  by  the  conflict.  "  Mariar  was  that  mad  she 
could  a-bit  a  ten-penny  nail  in  two  !  " 

"  What  was  it  'bout  ?  "  asked  Ephraim  with  a  grin. 

"  It  was  that  Hulse,"  cried  Maria,  laughing  very  loudly 
while  her  eyes  looked  swollen  and  dry. 

"  Hulse  ? "  echoed  Billy,  with  a  quick  impulse  of 
jealousy.  "What  was  he  doin'  'ere?*' 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


157 


"W'y,"  explained  Maud  Eliza,  interrupting  herself  at 
every  other  word  with  excited  titters,  "he  come  a-in- 
quirin'  fer  Bling,  'n7  Mariar  she  got  on  'er  ear  'n'  give  'im 
Hail  Columby.  Oh,  my  !  but  didn't  she  pepper  'im  ?  " 

"  She  made  'im  quit  his  funny  bizness,  I  bet/'  said 
Ephraim  with  admiration. 

"  I  ain't  sure  't  was  becomin',  though,"  remarked  Mrs. 
Pugsley.  "  I  ain't  sure  't  I'd  a-done  it,  nohow.  It 
showed  she  was  a  gal  o'  sperrit,  but  I  ain't  sure  'twas 
becomin'.  A  gal  may  go  too  fur. " 

"But  what  was  it  all  'bout?"  asked  Billy.  "What 
d'  he  do  ? " 

"  W'y,"  answered  Maud  Eliza  with  a  hilarious  strangle, 
"  I  couldn't  see  't  he  was  doin'  nothin'  wuss  'n'  callin'  ye 
Bling.  'N'  Mariar  didn't  seem  to  like  it.  She  made  a 
p'int  o'  the  handle— she  wanted  'im  to  call  ye  Mister.  She 
seems  to  want  folks  to  look  up  to  ye,  Mister  Bling !  " 

Everybody  laughed  at  this,  Maria  louder  than  the  others, 
But  her  laugh  was  not  mirthful ;  one  who  listened  care 
fully  might  have  thought  it  appealing. 

"  Mariar 's  the  devil's  own,"  said  Ephraim,  approvingly. 

Billy  had  never  thought  of  resenting  the  abbreviation 
of  his  name,  and  that  Maria  should  do  so  implied  an  in 
terest  in  his  dignity  which  was  more  than  pleasing,  and 
made  him  almost  feel  as  if  his  value  had  hitherto  been 
underrated.  His  heart  began  to  beat  rapidly,  and  he 
flushed  all  over  his  face  and  neck.  Could  she  really  have 
given  Hulse  a  rating  for  such  a  trifle  as  that  ?  Just  be 
cause  she  imagined  the  strange  man  had  been  lacking  in 
respect  ?  It  was  too  good  to  be  true.  He  gave  her  a 
radiant  look. 

"So  ye  went  fer  'im  o'  my  'count ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  wa'n't  goin'  to  stan'  none  o?  his  airs,"  she  replied, 
keeping  her  voice  steady  by  an  effort.  "  He  can  keep 
his  distance  from  me  'less  he  wants  suthin'  he  don't  like." 


1 58  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"Ye  got  away  with  him,  then,  did  ye?"  inquired 
Billy. 

"Ye  bet  she  did,  if  she  tried  it,"  affirmed  Ephraim. 
"It's  'most  dangerous  to  be  safe  aroun'  where  Mariar 
is!" 

"He  ain't  a  bad  feller,"  remarked  Billy,  generously. 
His  jealousy  was  all  gone  now. 

"Taffy  on  a  shoestring!"  cried  Maria.  "He's  the 
nastiest,  disagribblest  man  I  ever  see.  'N'  now  don't 
let's  talk  no  more  'bout  it.  I  want  ye  to  come  over  to 
dinner  to-morrer — we're  goin'  to  have  a  hen  fun'ral  'n 
want  ye  fer  chief  mourner." 

"'N'  apple  pie,"  added  Mrs.  Pugsley,  ambiguously. 

"Not  reg'lar  pie,"  corrected  Maud  Eliza.  "It's  a  con 
cern  to  eat  milk  'n'  sugar  on — way  up."  She  nodded  her 
head,  smacked  her  lips  and  giggled.  "Dad  calls  it 
apple-grunt. " 

Billy  went  away  presently,  and  as  soon  as  he  was 
out  of  sight  Maria  hurried  from  the  house  and  ran  to 
ward  the  river,  then  turned  and  followed  the  current 
down  stream  until  she  was  hidden  by  the  cottonwoods 
and  underbrush  which  grew  thickly  along  the  bank. 
When  she  was  certain  that  no  one  could  see  her,  she 
seated  herself  on  a  fallen  tree,  close  up  to  the  water,  and 
wept  as  only  a  woman  can  who  has  been  denied  the 
comfort  of  weeping  when  she  most  needed  it.  At  first 
the  sobs  came  thick  and  fast;  they  mastered  her,  they 
shook  her  like  impatient,  hostile  hands  ;  but  gradually 
the  violence  of  the  outburst  passed,  and  she  wept  those 
steady,  painless  tears  which  are  the  best  relief  of  bur 
dened  minds,  and  which  are  "salt,  and  bitter,  and  good." 
The  river  at  her  feet  moaned  dismally,  as  if  trying  to 
make  her  feel  its  sorrow  with  her  own  ;  and  the  wind 
among  the  branches  sighed,  as  if  telling  her  of  its  troubles, 
too.  Even  after  the  first  energy  of  her  emotion  was 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  !  59 

spent,  she  kept  on  weeping,  not  on  her  own  account, 
but  on  account  of  the  wind  and  the  water,  which  craved 
her  sympathy  and  appreciated  it  when  she  gave  it. 

Presently  her  eyes  cleared,  so  that  she  could  see  the 
river  and  the  trees  on  the  opposite  bank;  but  even  then 
there  were  spells  when  a  mist  would  shut  out  everything 
for  a  little  while,  and  she  thrilled  with  a  sensibility  which 
found  vent  only  in  slow,  helpless  tears.  She  wept  until 
she  no  longer  felt  revengeful  and  spiteful,  until  she  was 
ashamed  of  what  she  had  said  to  Hulse,  and  resolved  in 
her  soul  never  to  be  guilty  of  such  an  act  again. 

That  resolution  did  her  good.  It  consoled  her  to  be 
lieve  that  she  was  capable  of  doing  better ;  it  offset  pro- 
spectively  the  abominable  impression  she  had  produced. 
She  magnified  that  impression  in  all  possible  ways,  and 
felt  a  fierce  satisfaction  in  contemplating  herself  through 
Hulse's  eyes.  With  this  satisfaction  was  mingled  another 
of  a  different  kind,  namely  :  that  she  could  have  behaved 
herself  like  a  lady  if  she  had  tried,  and  that  she  would 
show  him  in  the  future  that  she  was  a  lady  in  spite  of  his 
just  predisposition  to  the  contrary. 

It  was  the  first  time  she  ever  really  regretted  anything 
of  her  doing,  and  the  regret  enlightened  her  considerably 
concerning  herself.  It  made  her  feel  less  absolute  and 
more  conditioned — a  discovery  which  was  not  altogether 
pleasant  in  spite  of  the  sense  of  enlightenment  accom 
panying  it.  The  idea  of  personal  value,  while  not  exclu 
sively  a  growth  of  Western  minds,  is  so 'predominant 
among  the  inhabitants  of  those  regions  that  many  are 
inclined  to  regard  it  as  indigenous  to  the  soil.  I  have 
seen  restaurant  waiters  in  the  mining  districts  of  the 
Pacific  Coast  Region  who  seemed  to  believe  that  all  the 
great  men  of  the  world  were  busy  with  astronomical  in 
struments  vainly  endeavoring  to  determine  their  altitude, 
Maria's  sudden  self-distrust  was  significant  of  an  ability 


l6o  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

to  reconstruct  her  conceptions  of  herself  on  a  firmer  basis 
than  that  of  personal  estimate.  She  felt  humble  and 
docile  and  womanly  ;  she  longed  to  begin  at  once  on  a 
course  of  action  which  should  meet  the  approval  of  people 
who  knew  what  was  the  right  thing  to  approve  ;  she  felt 
the  need  of  being  tenderer  to  everybody,  and  of  having 
people  think  well  of  her  ;  she  wanted  to  atone  for  her 
ridiculous  assumptions  of  dignity  by  subduing  and  morti 
fying  herself  in  her  future  actions.  She  sat  a  long  time 
listening  to  the  water  and  looking  out  over  the  lone,  level, 
far-stretching  valley. 

That  hour  under  the  cottonwoods  was  a  revelation  of 
many  new  things  concerning  herself  and  her  relations  to 
her  fellows.  A  little  self-examination  was  what  she  had 
long  needed.  Her  old  standard  became  all  at  once  value 
less;  she  determined  to  look  around  her  at  once  in  search 
of  new  and  better  ones.  It  is  not  difficult  to  follow  evil 
with  the  enthusiasm  of  an  ideal  :  half  the  world  does  so 
devoutly,  without  knowing  it.  It  was  to  Maria's  credit 
that,  as  soon  as  she  discovered  that  she  had  been  doing 
this  all  her  life,  she  set  about  finding  the  means  of  restor 
ing  her  confidence  on  a  more  solid  foundation. 

Without  knowing  it  herself,  she  had  begun  her  Conflict 
with  Hulse  with  the  intention  of  converting  his  indiffer 
ence  into  admiration  ;  she  had  ended  by  discovering  that 
his  standard  of  measurement,  while  not  correct  in  detail, — 
she  was  not  yet  prepared  to  admit  so  much  as  that, — was 
certainly  more  nearly  exact  than  her  own,  and  that  she 
had  made  herself  impressive  only  by  her  offensiveness. 
She  had  mistaken  a  disease  for  a  power ;  she  bore  no 
resemblance  to  the  all-important,  all-subduing  woman 
she  had  supposed  herself  to  be.  She  had  been  to  blame 
for  everything,  even  for  his  indifference  ;  it  was  because 
of  her  obvious  deficiencies  that  he  had  been  enabled  to 
Classify  her  at  once  where  she  belonged.  She  had  in' 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAII.  \  6 1 

tended  to  impress  him  with  perfections  which  he  did  not 
suspect ;  instead  of  that,  she  had  disclosed  deformities 
which  she  might  have  kept  concealed.  She  saw  it  all 
now — her  mind  passed  from  doubt  to  uncertainty  in  a 
slow  increase  of  light,  as  she  had  seen  the  mountains 
emerge  from  the  mist  at  sunrise. 

Our  movements  of  self-exploration  result  in  odd  dis 
coveries.  It  seemed  to  Maria  that  hereafter  her  decisions 
must  be  utterly  valueless,  torn  from  the  fertile  soil  of  her 
self-esteem  and  transplanted  into  the  less  congenial  me 
dium  of  self-distrust.  She  saw  herself  closed  in  by  ever- 
narrowing  horizons  of  ignorance,  wandering  forever 
helpless  and — yes,  aspiring.  For  the  worst  of  it — or  the 
best  of  it — was  that  she  could  never  be  her  old  self  again. 
There  were  better  things  in  life  than  she  had  ever  dreamed 
of,  though  what  they  were  she  could  not  guess.  Hulse 
knew  and  could  tell  her  if  he  chose,  but  she  would  never 
ask  him.  He  knew  of  worse  things,  too,  she  had  no 
doubt,  but  that  did  not  matter. 

She  wished  she  could  find  out  just  what  his  idea  of  a 
perfect  woman  was.  She  was  very  humble  in  her  new 
mood,  having  a  vision  minutely,  materially  distinct  of 
what  he  thought  of  her,  of  the  contempt  he  must  feel 
for  her.  She  pictured  herself  occupying  a  place  in 
his  thoughts  as  a  creature  of  stupendous  abilities  for 
doing  outrageous  things, — a  sort  of  moral  ogress  with 
a  palate  hungry  for  people  of  superior  manners.  She 
imagined  herself  so  impressive  in  her  hatefulness  that 
he  would  go  through  life  thinking  of  her  every  day, 
and  smiling  with  cool  criticism  at  her  violence,  which 
she  had  been  led  to  believe  was  commendable  and  a  sign 
of  a  great  soul.  Well,  all  that  was  now  past ;  but  what 
could  she  do  to  redeem  herself?  She  had  no  recollection 
of  any  woman  who  needed  redemption.  Poor  Maria's 
fears,  when  she  thought  of  the  future  which  this  man  had 

ii 


1 6  2  IN.  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

opened  up,  were  somehow  invariably  multiples  of  her 
hopes.  If  Hulse  were  only  a  different  sort  of  man,  more 
human,  more  likeable,  there  would  be  no  trouble  in  find 
ing  out  what  to  do  ;  she  would  go  directly  to  him  and 
ask.  But  that  was  impossible.  She  intended  never  to 
look  upon  his  face  again. 

Most  people  are  aware  of  love  as  a  slow-growing 
power,  like  the  song  which  smoothes  itself  against  the 
young  lark's  throat,  wooing  the  strength  to  roughen  it 
and  prove  the  wisdom  of  its  silence.  It  is  often  a  sweet 
lesson  conned  in  an  idle  hour  and  remembered  as  a  poem 
is  remembered,  by  rhythm  and  melody ;  but  sometimes 
it  is  a  whirlwind  wh;ch  stupefies  the  soul  to  its  dread 
presence,  and  is  known  forever  afterward  by  the  desola 
tion  it  leaves  behind. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  163 


CHAPTER  XXL 

THE  next  morning,  instead  of  starting  out  with  pick  and 
shovel,  as  his  custom  was,  Billy  found  it  necessary  to  lay 
in  a  supply  of  wood  for  his  cabin  fire.  He  had  already 
chopped  down  most  of  the  pines  close  to  the  cabin,  leav 
ing  those  which  were  high  up  among  the  rocks  and  near 
to  the  water,  partly  because  it  was  inconvenient  to  carry 
the  wood  down  the  steep  declivity,  but  partly  also  because 
he  felt  a  fine  appreciation  for  the  concord  between  the 
mournful  monotone  of  the  pines  and  the  lovelier  music 
of  the  waterfall.  He  liked  to  listen  at  night  to  the  slow 
swelling  and  dying  away  of  their  melody,  filling  the  lit 
tle  canon  with  sad  minor  cadences  and  making  the  dark 
ness  vibrate  with  serious  sympathy. 

He  shouldered  his  axe  and  went  up  the  canon.  Pres 
ently  he  ascended  a  trail  which  led  to  the  top  of  a 
hill  on  the  left  side  of  the  canon.  On  the  summit  he 
paused  a  little  to  get  his  breath  after  the  climb,  and  to  look 
around  him  and  draw  in  the  freer  air  of  this  height.  He 
was  facing  the  west ;  the  far-off  mountains  were  shrouded 
in  mist ;  the  valley  lay  close  and  gray,  and  in  its  midst 
flowed  what  seemed  a  songless,  shoreless  river,  sky- 
dropped  and  drifting  outward  to  the  sky.  The  moon  was 
sinking  slowly  into  the  mist  that  hulled  the  western  moun 
tains.  It  looked  like  a  tired,  white-winged  bird  fluttering 
down  the  heavens,  yet  so  near  that  Billy  almost  imagined 
he  could  reach  out  and  take  it  in  his  hands.  The  sun  was 
wrell  up  in  the  east,  but  as  yet  his  warm  rays  had  no  effect 
on  those  far-off  mists  at  the  opposite  pole  of  the  horizon. 


1 64  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OP  HA  VILAff. 

"I'd  like  Maria  to  see  it,"  Billy  thought,  leaning  the 
head  of  his  ax  against  a  rock  while  he  braced  his  elbow 
against  the  helve  and  looked  around  him.  "She'd  like 
it,  I  know  she  would.  I'll  ask  'er  to  come  up  some 
mornin'  'n'  take  a  look  at  it  with  me,  or  mebbe  she'd  like 
it  better  at  sunset." 

He  had  devoted  considerable  time  and  attention  to 
speculating  on  Maria's  likes  and  dislikes,  and  had  found 
the  subject  inexhaustible.  He  took  to  liking  things  vig 
orously  which  he  knew  pleased  her.  After  she  told  him 
how  fond  she  was  of  running  water,  he  was  able  to  dis 
tinguish  a  new  melodious  note  in  the  music  of  the  water 
fall  near  his  cabin.  The  spring  song  of  the  birds  was 
pleasanter,  knowing  that  she  loved  it.  With  this  delight 
in  taking  up  her  experiences  and  sharing  them,  had  come 
a  keener  desire  to  have  him  with  her  constantly,  partici 
pating  in  his  pleasures  with  a  measure  of  the  sympathy 
he  had  for  hers.  All  things  suggested  to  him  the  sweet 
ness  of  such  sympathy.  A  flush  of  red  light  on  the 
morning  mist ;  the  slow  movement  of  the  clouds,  those 
aimless  daughters  of  the  air  who  wander  carelessly,  but 
are  never  tired ;  the  frightful  splendor  of  sunset  clouds 
that  seemed  a-drip  with  blood  ;  everything  he  saw 
and  heard  made  him  wish  that  she  were  with  him  to  talk 
about  it.  And,  though  he  had  never  before  been  so  sus 
ceptible  to  the  beauty  of  the  world  around  him,  had 
never  been  so  deeply  impressed  with  watching  the 
smouldering  embers  of  sunset  die  out  slowly  while  the 
shadows  folded  the  departing  day,  never  had  felt  so 
deliciously  tired  and  tranquil  after  wandering  at  night 
under  the  big,  low-hanging  stars,  yet  when  he  tried  to 
tell  her  of  these  things  he  could  say  nothing.  Words  are 
at  once  the  enemies  and  friends  of  thought ;  and  Billy 
found  them  poor  helps  indeed,  when  obliged  to  depend 
upon  them  alone  for  the  expression  of  his  sensibilities. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  ^5 

After  a  cold  lunch  at  about  one  o'clock  Billy  put  on 
his  tremendous  neck-tie,  combed  his  hair  carefully,  and 
started  to  fill  his  dinner  engagement  at  the  Pugsleys'. 
He  saw  Maria  in  the  doorway  before  he  reached  the 
cabin,  and  thought  to  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  her 
half  so  beautiful. 

As  soon  as  she  saw  him  she  cried  aloud  to  some  one 
inside  the  cabin,  "  W'y,  here's  Billy  !  "  and  then  came  to 
the  edge  of  the  veranda  to  meet  him. 

"We  didn't  reckon  ye'd  be  'long  so  soon,"  she  said, 
with  a  look  of  genuine  pleasure. 

"Well,  I  hope  I  ain't  too  soon  to  be  welcome,"  he 
answered,  laughing. 

"Hardly,"  was  her  reply.  "Ye'll  allus  be  welcome 
where  /be.  Come  in,  come  in,  'n'  set  down." 

Billy  entered  the  cabin,  taking  off  his  hat  as  he  did  so. 
Maria  pushed  a  bench  toward  him, — one  of  several  which 
she  had  induced  her  father  to  knock  together  as  substi 
tutes  for  chairs, — and  repeated  her  invitation  to  be  seated. 
Then  she  took  his  hat,  after  a  faint  resistance  on  his  part, 
and  hung  it  up  on  a  nail  by  the  window. 

"There  !  "  she  said,  with  friendly  triumph,  "ye  wasn't 
a-goin'  to  give  it  to  me,  was  ye  ? " 

"W'y,  I  don't  want  to  make  no  trouble,"  he  answered. 
"  The  floor's  good  'nough  fer  my  hat,  'n'  if  'tain't,  I  can 
wait  on  myself.  How  d'ye  find  yerself  to-day,  Mis' 
Pugsley  ?  Better,  I  hope  ? " 

Mrs.  Pugsley  adjusted  her  crinoline  with  ostentatious 
nicety,  and  raised  herself  a  little  way  on  her  blankets  with 
as  much  effort  for  effect  as  if  she  had  been  posing  for 
Venus  rising  from  the  sea. 

"Yes,  I  reckon  I  may  say  I'm  better,  young  man, "she 
replied  with  dignity.  "  'N'  I  ain't  got  no  call  to  say  I 
ain't  glad  'n'  proud  when  I'm  asked  how  I  be,  even  if  I 
never  hope  to  say  I'm  well ;  'n'  we're  very  glad  o'  yer 


1 66  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

comp'ny  to  dinner,  Mr.  Bling.  'N'  I've  spoke  fer  the 
gizzard,  which  is  my  fav'rite." 

After  making  this  last  statement  in  a  solemn  and  official 
manner,  she  settled  back  and  assumed  a  more  conversa 
tional  tone. 

"We  didn't  git  up  till  eight  o'clock  this  mornin',  'n' 
seems  to  me  like  they  ain't  been  no  time  to  do  nothin'  all 
day  long.  I've  jes'  been  layin'  here  'n'  thinkin'  't  Mariar 
orter  a-got  up  earlier  when  she  knowed  we  was  goin'  to 
have  comp'ny  like  this  'ere.  She's  had  to  fly  to  git  things 
readj-,  I  tell  ye.  I  ain't  sure  't  the  vittles  '11  be  done  the 
way  they  orter  be,  nohow  ;  but  I  can't  help  it,  stretched 
out  'ere  the  way  I  be  with  the  pains  a-jumpin'  through  me. 
She  orter  a-got  up  earlier,  I  should  say.  I'm  afeerd  she's 
a-gittin'  pompered  with  lux'ry." 

"Well,  I  don't  b'lieve  in  settin'  up  all  night  so's  to  be 
sure  o'  bein'  up  in  the  mornin',"  said  Maria. 

"Nor  I,"  said  Billy.  "My  mornin'  snooze  's  the  best 
part  o'  my  sleep.  Ain't  yer  dad  nowheres  aroun'  ?  I 
'spected  he'd  be  'ere,  sure." 

"Oh,  he'll  be  on  hand  fer  the  chicken,  ye  can  go 
a-gamblin'  o'  that. "  Maria's  resolution  to  be  good  had 
not  yet  produced  a  reform  in  her  language,  and  she  was 
as  slangy  as  ever.  "He  likes  chicken  equal  to  a  preacher. 
He's  hangin'  aroun'  the  saloons,  I  reckon,  same  as  usual. 
He  never  got  treated  so  much  nowheres  afore." 

A  conscious  look  must  have  crept  into  Billy's  face  for 
she  cried  out  immediately  : 

"  I  bet  yeVe  been  a-givin'  'im  money  !  " 

He  did  not  answer,  but  his  looks  spoke  plainly  enough 
for  him. 

"  Have  ye,  now?''  she  insisted. 

He  laughed  rather  sheepishly. 

"  Well,  they  ain't  no  use  denyin'  it  as  I  know  of,"  he 
said.  "  I  give  'im  a  couple  o'  dollars  day  afore  yisterday 


IN-  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  167 

jes'  fer  luck.     I  heerd  ye  say  as  he  was  better  nater'd 
when  he  had  a  drop  or  two  to  keep  'im  up." 

"  So  he  is — so  he  is.  Lor',  I  told  'im  only  this  mornin' 
't  if  he  could  smell  his  own  breath  it  'ud  save  him  two 
bits  every  time  he  opened  his  mouth.  'N'  there  ye  was 
at  the  bottom  o'  it !  " 

"  I  hope  ye  don't  mind?"  said  Billy,  anxiously. 

"  Mind?  oh,  no  ;  I  don't  mind.  All  I  mind  'bout  is  his 
gittin'  too  much  'n'  commencin'  his  howlin'.  He's  awful 
then." 

"  He  seems  to  think  a  heap  o'  his  fam'ly,"  remarked 
Billy. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  does.  I  reckon  they  ain't  no  man  no- 
wheres  Vs  prouder  o*  his  wife  'n'  gals  'n  what  dad  is.  At 
the  same  time  he  don't  seem  to  have  no  idee  o'  doin' 
nothin'  fer  us.  He  likes  us  fust  rate,  but  he  likes  doin' 
nothin'  a  deal  sight  better. " 

"  Oh,  well,  I  reckon  it's  a  habit,"  said  Billy  with  in 
dulgence. 

11  Yes,  it's  a  habit — that's  jes'  it,  'n'  a  mighty  bad  one, 
too.  It's  a  habit.  If  it  was  a  accident  I  could  overlook 
it  easier.  It's  one  thing  to  step  into  the  mud  absent- 
minded  like,  but  it's  'nother  to  stan'  there  shif'less  till  it 
dries  'n'  holds  ye  fast/' 

Billy  laughed. 

11  Ye're  ruther  hard  on  yer  dad,"  he  said.  "  'N' that's 
nat'ral,  bein'  't  ye're  so  difrent  yerself." 

"Well,  I  ain't  much  like  'im,  'n'  that's  a  fack.  I 
d'  know  's  I'm  like  nobody.  Ma  says  they  ain't  no  Swipes 
in  me,  so  I  d'  know  who  or  what  I  be." 

"  She  cert'nly  ain't  no  Swipes,"  affirmed  the  moist 
woman.  "  Not  half  the  Swipes  't  Maud  Elizy  is." 

'  Talkin'  o'  Maud  Elizy   sets  me  a-wonderin'   where 
she's  likely  to  be,"  said  Maria.      "  Traipsin'  'n*  trollopin' 


1 68  IN  THE   VALLEY  OP 

the  camp,  I  reckon,  's  usual.     She  orter  be  slapped  'n' 
shet  up  in  the  woodshed." 

"  Why,  Mariar,"  put  in  her  mother  in  a  reproachful 
tone,  "  the  gal  mus'  have  a  little  fun  wunst  in  awhile. 
She  ain't  like  whatj/ou  be ;  ye  don't  seem  to  understan' 
'er." 

"  She  ain't  too  deep  fer  common  folks  to  understan', 
nohow,"  declared  Maria. 

"  She's  all  Swipes,  Maud  Elizy  is,"  pursued  the  old 
woman  without  noticing  the  interruption,  "  'n'  somehow 
ye  never  seem  to  see  jes'  what  that  is.  The  Swipes1  natrr 
goes  beyond  ye.  Maud  Elizy  's  all  ferlaffin'  'n'  takin'  on 
'n'  havin'  a  good  time.  She's  jes'  like  I  was,  her  age— 
jes'  zackly.  'N'  if  she  don't  git  out  'n'  rustle  'roun'  'n' 
ketch  a  man  fer  'erself,  I'd  like  to  know  who's  a-goin'  to 
do  it  fer  'er  ?  I  can't,  laid  up  here  with  my  sides  a-splittin' 
off  of  me.  'N'  if  she  was  likejyou  'n  treated  all  the  fellers 
the  way  ye  did  that  Huise  yisterday,  I'd  like  to  know 
where  her  chances  'ud  be  ? " 

Maria  flushed  scarlet. 

"  Huise  is  difrent  from  the  rest  o'  ;em,"  she  said,  in 
weak  justification. 

"  I  reckon  ye  made  'im  feel  sick,"  cried  Billy  in  a  tone 
of  glee.  "  He  allus  has  his  nose  in  the  air,  though  he 
don't  seem  to  know  it,  'n'  it  '11  do  'im  good  to  have  it 
lowered." 

"  Oh,  I  d'  know,"  replied  Maria  in  an  altered  voice. 
"  I'm  ruther  'shamed  o'  what  I  done.  I  hadn't  got  no 
call  to  ack  so. " 

"  H«-'s  a  queer-lookin'  critter,"  remarked  Mrs.  Pugsley. 
"The  las'  one  I'd  want  fer  a  son-in-law  if  I  had  any 
chooshY  in  the  bizness.  I  wouldn't  know  how  to  git 
aroun'  sech  a  man.  I  couldn't  tell  whether  I'd  reely  got 
'im  or  not." 

"  Prob'Iy  some  wooman's  give  'irn  the  shake  some  time 


£  LE  Y  OF  ffA  riLAff.  1 69 

or  other, "  said  Maria,  still  flushing.  **  I've  heerd  how 
that  makes  some  men  queer  in  their  heads.  Don't  that 
air  chicken  smell  good,  though,  a-boilin'  rn  a-steamiV  ? 
I  like  the  smell  o*  it  'mos*  "s  well  's  I  do  the  taste. " 

_a  may  bare  the  smell  if  ye  like,"  retumeil  Mrs. 
Pugsley,  solemnly.  "  But  111  take  the  gizzard  fer  mine, 
every  time.  I  wonder  why  chickens  waVt  made  all 
gizzard,  Mariar  ?  I'm  sure  they'd  a-been  a  heap  better 
feedin'/' 


170 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  WE  might  go  out  V  set  on  the  verandy  steps,  I 
should  think/'  said  Billy  after  a  little  while.  "  Ye  won't 
have  to  fix  the  table  fer  some  time  yit,  'n'  the  pertaters  'n' 
chicken  '11  keep  on  bilin'  'thout  our  stayin*  in  here.  'N' 
ain't  it  ruther  warm,  spite  o'  the  door  bein'  open  ?  " 

"  Well,  mebbe  'tis.  I  like  it  better  in  the  air,  anyhow. 
The  river  sounds  plainer  out  there." 

She  went  to  the  stove  and  lifted  the  tin  pan  which 
served  as  lid  to  the  kettle  in  which  the  chicken  was 
boiling,  and  gazed  in  with  housewifely  solicitude,  giving 
the  contents  a  thoughtful  poke  or  two  with  her  steel  fork, 
then  followed  him  out  upon  the  veranda  with  the  fork  still 
in  her  hand. 

"  It's  awful  pleasant  to  have  the  river  so  near,"  she 
said,  seating  herself  at  his  side.  "I  never  git  tired  o'  it, 
day  nor  night." 

"Yes.  Sence  ye  spoke  to  me 'bout  it  I've  had  the 
same  feelin'  fer  the  water  up  there  to  my  place.  When  I 
wake  up  in  the  night,  the  sound  o'  it  seems  sort  o' 
friendly." 

"  I  warrant  it  does,"  said  Maria.  tf  'N'  it's  a  kind  o' 
friendship  a  body  don't  git  tired  of.  That's  the  test  o' 
friendship — when  it  lasts  'thout  makin'  a  feller  tired." 

"  I  hope  ye  ain't  in  the  habit  o'  gettin'  tired  o'  yer 
friends  ?  "  said  Billy. 

"  No,  I  don't  reckon  I' be.  But  they's  lots  o'  folks  't  a 
body  seems  to  git  sick  of  purty  quick.  They  don't  last,— 
familiarity  wears  'em  thin  in  less  'n'  no  time.  Ye  know 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


171 


what  I  mean, — it  gits  to  be  a  trouble,  fearin'  't  they  may 
tear  into  rags  if  ye  touch  em  'n'  nothin'  be  left  but  a  few 
.scraps  here  'n'  there  to  reproach  ye." 

"  Yes,  I've  seen  that  sort  o'  folks." 

"  'N'  they's  some  't  has  sech  a  heap  o'  meanness  in  'em 
'n'  yit  manage  to  cover  it  up  so  't  ye  don't  s'pect, — any 
ways  fer  a  long  time.  They  ain't  no  tellin'  what  they  be 
from  what  they  say  'n'  do.  I  hate  that  wuss  'n  anything. 
It's  like  ye  can't  jedge  by  the  jinglin'  how  much  money 
they  is  in  a  man's  pocket.  More  likely  'n  not  he's  got  a 
lot  o'  keys  or  suthin'  in  there  't  makes  the  noise.'' 

"  That's  so,"  said  Billy,  with  an  emphatic  nod. 

"  I  hate  fuss  'n'  make-believe,"  continued  Maria. 
"  The  man  't  makes  the  biggest  splashin'  in  the  wash 
basin  don't  allus  come  out  with  the  cleanest  face.  I  like 
folks  to  show  right  out  plain  what  they  be,  'n'  then  I  know 
how  to  take  'em. " 

"  It's  a  wicked  world/'  remarked  Billy,  vaguely,  dis 
cerning  that  Maria  was  in  a  pessimistic  mood,  and  that 
she  expected  him  to  share  it  with  her. 

"  Yes,  a  wicked  world, "she  repeated,  stabbing  her  fork 
into  the  wooden  step  and  drawing  it  out  with  a  wrench. 
"  'N'  sometimes  it  seems  to  me  like  I'm  the  very  wickedest 
critter  a-runnin'  in  it." 

"  Oh,  Lor',  no,"  replied  Billy,  not  prepared  to  go  into 
extremes  in  that  rash  way.  "  You  wicked  !  what  a  idee ! ' 

11  Oh,  ye  d'  know  me,"  declared  Maria,  stabbing  her 
fork  into  the  step  repeatedly.  "  Ye  think  I'm  good,  but 
ye  d'  know  me.  Dad's  right  when  he  calls  me  a  terror. 
I  am  a  terror — I'm  jes'  what  he  says — I'm  the  Devil's 
Own." 

. "  That's  all  stuff,"  said  Billy,  in  a  tone  of  conviction, 
"/say  ye're  the  best  woman  I  ever  seen, — I  won't  even 
except  my  mother.  'N'  she's  in  heaven,  if  they's  a  place 
fer  good  folks  to  go  to  when  they're  dead. " 


172  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"  Ye  d'  know  me,"  she  repeated,  gloomily.  "  I'm  a 
terror, — I'm  a  terror  to  the  world  !  " 

Billy  glanced  at  her  with  shy  insistence. 

"  Anyhow,  ye're  good  'nough  fer  me/1  he  said. 

She  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"  All  the  trouble  'n'  bother  I  ever  had  's  jes'  come  from 
my  bein'  sech  a  case." 

"  Oh,  shucks!"  said  Billy,  sympathetic  but  unbeliev 
ing. 

"  Well,  it's  so,  anyhow,"  she  affirmed.  "  I  am  a  case. 
'N'  it's  been  a-worryin'  me  a  good  deal  lately.  I  didn't 
sleep  good  las'  night  fer  thinkin'  o'  it." 

"  Fer  thinkin'  o'  yer  wickedness  ?"  said  Billy  with  a 
laugh.  "Oh,  Lor'!" 

"  Well,  I  didn't  sleep,  anyhow,  'n'  ye  may  laugh  's 
much  's  ye  like.  But  it's  no  laughin'  matter. " 

"  I  won't  laugh  no  more,  then." 

They  sat  for  some  time,  and  he  did  not  attempt  to  dis 
turb  her.  She  was  looking  out  toward  the  river,  where 
the  water  flashed  in  the  sun  as  it  slipped  between  the 
scarred  trunks  of  the  cottonwoods.  She  held  her  fork  in 
both  hands  now,  and  her  arms  were  resting  rigidly  on 
her  knees.  All  at  once  she  turned  toward  him  and  spoke 
in  an  abrupt,  earnest  tone  : 

"  I've  been  thinkin'  what  I  mus'  do  to  make  a  better 
wooman  out  o'  myself,  Billy.  I  want  to  be  a  better 
wooman." 

Billy  looked  at  her  as  puzzled  as  trying  to  follow  her  in 
a  course  of  abstract  reasoning.  That  she  should  want  to 
be  better  was  little  short  of  incomprehensible.  Was  she 
not  the  best  and  most  beautiful  being  in  the  world 
naturally  and  without  any  effort  of  her  own  ?  And  did 
not  everybody  recognize  her  as  such  who  came  near  her  ? 
The  idea  that  she  was  wicked  was  absurd.  He  could  not 
locate  her  except  as  an  incarnate  perfection. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 73 

"  W'y,  Mariar — "  he  began. 

But  she  interrupted  him  before  he  could  go  further. 

"  I  want  to  be  better/' she  repeated,  seriously,  with 
her  eyes  fixed  again  on  the  gliding  river.  4<  I  want  to  be 
more  like  reel  wimmin, — I  want  to  know  things.  Lor',  I 
d'  know  nothin',  /don't." 

"  Ye  know  loads  more  'n  some  folks  't  purtend  to  be 
smarter,"  said  Billy.  She  seemed  far  enough  away  from 
him  now  in  the  fulness  of  her  strength  and  beauty  ;  what 
would  she  be  if  the  wisdom  of  books  were  added  to  her 
natural  advantages  ?  "  D'ye  mean  ye're  goin'  to  take  to 
readin'  books,  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  o'  it  las'  night  when  I  was  layin*  awake/' 
she  said,  still  more  seriously.  "  But  I  ain't  sure  't  that's 
what  I  want, — I  ain't  sure  o'  nothin'.  D'ye  reckon  all 
them  fine  wimmin  down  to  'Frisco  knows  how  to  read  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  they  do." 

"  It  come  into  my  head  't  it  might  be  a  good  thing  to 
know  books  in  that  permis'cus  way  't  ye  could  pick  one 
up  anywheres  'n'  read  it  'thout  stoppin'  to  spell  out  the 
words.  They  mus'  be  a  heap  in  'em  if  a  feller  only 
knowed  how  to  git  it  out.  I  used  to  read  the  Bible  a 
little,  but  I  didn't  seem  to  enjoy  it  much.  I  had  one  't 
Maud  EHzy  stole  wunst  when  we  was  little  gals  'n'  went 
into  a  church  in  San  Jose  while  a  feller  was  sweepin'  out. 
They  was  lots  o'  Bibles  'n'  hymn  books  'n'  sech  layin' 
aroun'  on  the  seats,  'n'  she  chucked  one  under  'er  apern 
'n'  carried  it  off.  I  reckon  if  I  could  read  the  Bible  right 
along  easy,  I  might  git  a  right  smart  o'  good  out  o'  it. 
But  it  was  hard  to  spell  through  the  words." 

"  I  'member  my  mother  used  to  read  in  the  Bible/' said 
Billy.  "She  done  it  every  evenin',  reg'lar.  She'd  draw 
'er  chair  up  to  the  table  where  the  candles  was  'n'  read 
there  a  hour  to  a  time,  jes'  's  peaceful  'n'  quiet.  I  can 
'member  how  good  she  allus  looked,  a-sittin'  so/' 


1  74  !W  TH£   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH, 

"  She  could  read  right  off,  couldn't  she  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes." 

"  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  that  was  jes'  what  I  wanted. 
I've  lost  my  Bible  now — the  one  what  Maud  Elizy  stole. 
I  d'  know  what's  become  o'  it.  I  reckon  it  tumbled  out  o' 
the  waggin  som'ers  when  we  was  on  the  go.  But  they's 
newspapers.  I  reckon  a  feller  could  use  newspapers." 
Poor  Maria's  ideas  of  the  means  employed  in  being  good 
were  full  of  the  hazy  indistinctness  which  characterizes  a 
broad  landscape. 

"  Hulse  might  lend  ye  some  o'  his  books,"  said  Billy, 
with  a  touch  of  bitterness. 

Maria  flushed.  Did  Billy,  in  a  measure,  suspect  the 
truth  ?  She  was  inclined  to  believe  so,  and  resented  his 
penetration  as  an  intrusion  into  the  privacy  of  her  own 
soul.  But  she  did  not  dare  to  give  utterance  to  her 
resentment ;  "it  would  testify  to  the  truthfulness  of  his 
suspicions. 

"  I  don't  want  none  o'  his  books,"  she  said,  trying  -to 
speak  naturally  and  succeeding  to  a  degree  that  surprised 
herself.  "  I  wouldn't  ask  'im  fer  'em,  nohow.  'N',  'sides 
that,  I  doubt  if  I  could  understan'  'em  if  I  had  'em." 

"  Well,  I  have  my  doubts  'bout  all  books  'ceptin'  the 
Bible,"  said  Billy.  "  The  Bible  's  all  right,  but  ye  can't 
never  tell  'bout  the  others." 

"  Then  ye  wouldn't  try  it,  if  ye  was  me?  " 

"No,  I  wouldn't." 

She  looked  at  him  thoughtfully. 

"Then  I  reckon  I  won't, "she  said. 

Billy  beamed. 

"  Hulse's  books  ain't  made  'im  no  happier  nor  better," 
he  said.  "  It's  my  'pinion  ye're  jes'  's  well  off  a-lettin' 
that  air  truck  alone.'' 

She  was  silent  awhile  and  did  not  look  at  him,  but  he 
felt  somehow  uncomfortable,  as  if  she  were  on  the  point 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 75 

of  saying  something  severe  but  were  suppressing  the 
inclination.  He  wished  he  had  not  spoken  quite  so  posi 
tively  ;  what  right  had  he  to  tell  her  that  she  would  better 
let  that  truck  alone  ?  If  she  should  burst  forth  with  an 
angry  retort,  how  could  he  answer  her  ? 

"  Hulse  might  be  a  heap  unhappier  if  he  didn't  have 
his  books,"  she  responded,  and  her  voice  trembled  a  little, 
though  not  with  anger.  "  'N'  how  do  I  know  how  much 
I'm  missin'  by  not  bein'  able  to  read,  too  ?  It's  a  awful 
bother  to  learn,  I  hain't  no  doubt,  but  when  a  feller  got 
so  't  he  could  do  it  fast,  why — they  mus'  be  suthin'  in  it, 
or  else  why  do  all  the  preachers  'n'  other  good  folks  read 
so  much  ?  " 

She  stabbed  her  fork  into  the  step  again  and  broke  off 
a  splinter  of  the  light  pine. 

"  Well,"  said  Billy,  yielding  as  his  habit  was,  "  they 
ain't  no  denyin'  't  they's  a  heap  in  knowin'  things  't 's  to 
be  knowed.  I'm  often  s'prised  at  things  I  d'  know  nothin' 
'bout." 

"  I  ain't  never  s'prised  at  things  I  d'  know  nothin' 
'bout,"  she  answered.  "  I'm  used  to  that.  But  I'm 
frekently  s'prised  at  things  I  do  know.  I  ain't  quite  a 
fool,  if  I  dorit  know  nothin'  'bout  book-learnin'.  'N'  I 
ain't  a-goin'  to  say  't  lots  o'  things  I  know  ain't  more  use 
ful  'n  what  the  gals  down  to  'Frisco  learn  't  go  to  school 
in  them  big  buildin's.  Lor',  I've  heerd  tell  o'  their  say- 
in's,  sometimes,  'n'  seems  to  me  like  they  mus'  be  awful 
sawneys.  Mebbe  if  I'd  take  to  learnin'  I'd  git  like  that. 
Mebbe  they's  some  sort  o'  danger,  like,  in  books  't  a 
feller  'd  have  to  look  out  fer.  Mebbe  they're  suthin'  like 
spectacles— they  help  or  hinder  the  sight,  'n'  it  can't  be 
said  aforehand  which  they're  goin'  to  do." 

Billy  smiled  at  her  earnestness  and  shook  his  head. 

"  Fust  ye'reall  fer  books,  a  body  'd  think,  'n'then  ye're 


1 76  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

all  agin  'em.     It's  sort  o'  hard  to  make  out  jes'  what  ye 
mean." 

She  smiled  back  at  him  with  a  measure  of  her  customary 
brightness. 

"  Well,  don't  try,  then.  It's  'nough  fer  us  't  we're  good 
friends,  ain't  it,  even  if  we  don't  allus  see  clean  through 
each  other?  'N'  we  air  good  friends,  Billy,"  she  cried, 
cordially.  "  We've  been  so  ever  sence  we  met,  'n'  we're 
goin'  to  keep  right  on,  ain't  we  ?  It  needn't  bother  .us  't 
we're  sometimes  puzzled  at  each  other.  Lor',  I  don't 
reckon  't  most  o'  us  see  through  ourselves  clear,  let  alone 
other  folks.  We  say  we  see  the  sky,  but  what  do  we 
know  o'  its  depths  'n'  bounds  ? " 

Her  return  to  a  tone  of  confidence  and  friendship  caused 
a  thrill  of  warmth  in  Billy's  heart.  His  voice  trembled  a 
little  with  suppressed  eagerness  as  he  spoke  after  a  little 
preparatory  pause. 

"  We  may  not  know  very  much  o'  ourselves,  as  ye  say, 
but  they's  one  thing  't  I  could  allus  be  sure  of,  no  matter 
what  else  I  couldn't  see  plain  :  if  I  loved  a  wooman  I'd 
know  it,  'n*  I'd  love  'er  honest  'n'  true."  He  knew  that 
this  rapid  particularization  might  prove  disastrous, — he 
was  never  at  all  certain  of  the  manner  in  which  she  would 
receive  his  advances, — but  he  could  not  restrain  himself. 
The  words  had  a  life  of  their  own  and  would  not  be  held 
back.  Anyway  her  avowal  of  friendship  gave  him  some 
thing  like  a  right  to  be  distinctive  and  descriptive  in 
speaking  of  himself. 

She  examined  her  fork  with  assiduous  attention. 

"  I  should  think  anybody  'd  know  when  they  was  in 
love,"  she  said,  pressing  the  tines  together  and  then  let- 
ing  them  fly  apart.  "  I'm  sure  I  shall.  I  don't  reckon 
I'll  be  backward  'bout  comin'  forrard  'n'  lettin'it  be  known, 
nuther.  I  don't  flatter  myself  I  m  over  bashful.  Lor', 
there's  Maud  Elizy  'n'  dad  comin'  with  their  noses  up 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


177 


a-smellin'  that  chicken  afar  off.     Didn't  I  tell  ye  they'd  be 
here  in  time  ?     I  mus'  go  in  'n'see  to  things." 

Maud  Elizy  went  around  to  the  woodshed  and  Ephraim 
came  up  to  Billy,  grinning.  His  life  may  be  described 
as  one  long,  unsightly  grin.  Even  the  variation  of  what 
he  was  pleased  to  call  a  "  'casional  little  debauch"  did 
not  effectually  break  the  monotony  of  his  grimaces. 


12 


1 78  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

MARIA  remained  standing  at  Billy's  side  till  her  father 
came  up.  Her  eyes  were  roaming  absently,  and  she 
seemed  touched  by  a  slow  appreciation  of  the  magnificent 
landscape. 

' '  It's  a  day  straggled  from  heaven,  ain't  it  ? "  she  said. 
"  It'll  be  this  way  right  along,  now,  I  reckon.  It  gives 
a  body  a  relief  o'  mind  when  the  rainy  season  's  reely 
over,  don't  it  ?  It  makes  me  feel  like  I  was  beginnin' 
everything  over  agin. " 

She  let  her  gaze  rest  a  moment  on  the  distant  moun 
tains,  above  which  the  heaped  white  clouds  rose  like  ice 
bergs  that  rest  a  little  before  a  current  comes  and  bears 
them  away.  Then  she  sighed  unconsciously  and  went 
into  the  house. 

Ephraim  sat  down  in  her  place  and  Billy  talked  to 
him  in  an  aimless  fashion,  listening  all  the  time  to  the 
sound  of  Maria's  footsteps  within  Now  she  was  going 
to  the  cupboard  for  something  :  now  she  was  lifting  the 
pan  from  the  kettle  and  poking  the  steaming  contents,  as 
he  had  seen  her  do  before  she  came  out  with  him  upon 
the  veranda  ;  now  she  was  going  into  the  woodshed  for 
wood.  He  heard  the  clatter  of  the  sticks  as  she  flung 
them  down  by  the  stove  when  she  came  back  into  the 
room,  and  presently  she  returned  to  the  door  and  spoke 
to  her  father. 

"  Ye'll  have  to  come  'n'  split  some  more  wood,  dad," 
she  said.  "  That's  all  gone  't  ye  split  las'  night." 

"  Lem'me  go  'n'  do  it,  '  said  Billy,  as  Ephraim  rose  to 
obey  hen 


IN  THE     VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i  79 

But  Maria  would  not  hear  of  that,  and  pushed  him  play 
fully  back  into  his  seat  He  was  an  invited  guest  to-day, 
and  must  do  nothing  like  work  while  he  was  there  in  that 
capacity. 

11  I  used  to  be  a  da«dy  at  wood-splittin',"  she  said. 
"  But  I  don't  do  it  no  more  'nless  I  have  to.  I  chopped 
my  toe  wunst  with  the  axe  'n'that  made  me  kind  o'shy." 

"  Did  it  hurt  the  axe  ? "  asked  Billy,  gravely. 

"  Oh,  ye  silly  !  "  she  laughed,  shaking  her  fork  at  him 
and  re-entering  the  house. 

After  a  while  she  shouted  to  him  that  dinner  was  ready, 
and  he  had  the  honor  of  assisting  Mrs.  Pugsley  to  rise 
from  her  blankets — a  performance  which  the  moist  woman 
accomplished  with  a  great  deal  of  groaning  and  ostenta 
tious  management  of  crinoline. 

When  they  were  seated  at  table  and  Maria  was  pouring 
the  coffee,  she  said  : 

' '  Well,  dad,  where  ye  been  all  afternoon  ?  We  missed 
yer gentle  cackle  'n'  Billy  was  'quirin'  fer  ye." 

"  Oh,  I  was  'roun'  camp,"  replied  Ephraim. 

"  Lookin'  under  yer  little  finger  ?''  inquired  Maria. 

Ephraim  grinned. 

"Well,  fer  the  sake  o'  argyment,  we'll  say  I  was  lookin' 
under  my  little  finger.  Boosey  sells  a  mighty  good  bran* 
o'  whiskey  fer  this  part  o'  the  country." 

"Well,  dish  up  the  chicken  'n  'don't  set  there  a-grinnin'. 
Don't  ye  see  ma's  waitin'  fer  the  gizzard  ?  Pass  yer  dish, 
ma,  quick  !  I'm  goin'  to  see  't  ye' re  waited  on  fust." 

But  the  moist  woman  seemed  to  have  been  seized  by  a 
sudden  spasm  of  humanity  and  settled  back  in  her  seat, 
shaking  her  head  mournfully. 

"  Don't  quar'l  'bout  me,"  she  said.  "  I  hate  quar'lin'. 
'Sides,  I  ain't  nobody  to  quar'l  'n' fight  over.  If  anybody 
wants  the  gizzard  they  can  have  it.  I  ain't  got  no  right 
to  it  if  they's  anybody  else  't  feels  the  need  o'  it." 


1 80  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VI LA II. 

"  Oh,  Lor',  ma,"  cried  Maria,  heartily,  "pass  yer  plate 
'n'  don't  jaw.  Don't  ye  see  dad's  waitin'  ?  " 

"  Mebbe  Mr.  Bling  'ud  like  it,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley  in  a 
fatal  tone. 

"Oh,  no!"  cried  Billy.      "Pdallus  ruther  have  a  leg  !  " 

"  Maud  Elizy's  fond  o'  the  gizzard,  I  know,"  quavered 
Mrs.  Pugsley.  "  Let  'er  have  it,  Ephraim.  I  ain't 
a-goin'  to  quar'l.  Nobody  shall  have  it  to  say  o'  me 
when  I'm  dead  't  I  wa'n't  a  good  mother  to  my  own  flesh 
'n'  blood." 

11  I  don't  want  it,"  declared  Maud  Eliza.  "  I'm  goin' 
to  have  the  wish-bone  'n'  stick  it  up  over  the  door.'' 

"  Mariar  wants  it  then,"  said  Mrs.  Pugsley. 

"  No,  no!"  affirmed  Maria. 

"Well,  I  know  Ephraim  does.  Take  it,  Ephraim,  dear. 
I've  been  a  good  wife  to  ye  'n'  allus  will  be.  Gimme  the 
backbone  'n'  the  ribs,  or  the  neck.  They're  's  good  's  I 
deserve. " 

She  passed  her  plate,  looking  out  of  the  window  and 
wiping  her  eyes  while  he  helped  her.  After  he  had 
finished  she  did  not  look  down  at  her  plate  for  some  time, 
and  when  at  last  she  did  so  it  was  with  the  unwilling  air 
of  one  who  has  postponed  as  long  as  possible  a  bitter 
draught  of  medicine  which  must  be  taken. 

"  W'y,  ye  gimme  the  gizzard,  Ephraim  !  "  she  cried. 
Then,  with  tearful  meekness,  "  Thankee,  dear  !  " 

She  wiped  her  eyes  pathetically  and  cut  off  a  bit  and 
tasted  it. 

"  I  don't  see  w'y  the  hull  animal  couldn't  a-been  giz 
zard,"  she  said,  more  hopefully  after  discovering  the 
coveted  morsel  on  her  plate.  "  'N'  then  they  could  be 
none  o'  this  'ere  fussin'  'n'  quar'lin'. " 

"  Lor',"  cried  Maria,  merrily,  "if 'twas  all  gizzard  ye'd 
be  a-gettin'  so  fat  ye  couldn't  see  over  yerself,  ma.  I 
wonder  the  hull  o'  us  ain't  in  that  fix  with  all  the  good 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 8 1 

things  we've  been  a-feastin'  on  lately.  Have  some  o'  the 
gravy  on  yer  pertater,  Billy.  Ye  like  chicken  gravy,  I 
hope  ? " 

"  Well,  I  should  say  I  did!"  declared  Billy.  "  Ain't 
it  yer  own  make  ? " 

'•  Pooh  !  that  ain't  no  reason  fer  likin'it.  Maud  Elizy, 
set  the  salt  where  he  can  run  his  knife  into  it  'n'  git  what 
he  wants.  'N'  the  bread's  too  fur  away, — shove  it  over 
into  the  middle  o'  the  table  V  make  yerself  useful.  Billy 
mus'  git  all  he  can  carry,  fer  wunst.  He  bought  it,  ?n'  a 
man  mus'  suffer  the  consequence  o?  his  piety." 

"  Great  piety,  that!"  cried  Billy,  between  mouthfuls. 

"Well,  call  it  charity,  then.  We're  a  ragged  lot,  we 
air,  but  I  d'  know  where  we'd  be  if  it  wa'n't  fer  your  doin' 
fer  us.  We  never  was  quite  so  low  down  afore,  seems  to 
me.  They's  lots  o'  folks  't  can  easier  drop  a  tear  V  a 
penny,  but  you  ain't  that  sort,  I'll  go  bail  to  say.  Look 
at  Maud  Elizy  !  Don't  she  bear  down  on  that  wish-bone 
heavy  ? " 

Maud  Eliza  was  too  busy  to  answer  more  definitely 
than  by  a  smothered  titter. 

"Don't  she  come  right  down  on  it  with  both  feet?" 
continued  Maria  with  mock  admiration.  "  Ain't  she 
courageous  to  tackle  it  single-handed  like  that  ? " 

"  Oh,  yes,  ole  funny  !  "  said  Maud  Eliza,  compelled  to 
some  more  specific  form  of  articulation. 

"  Well,  I'm  glad  we  don't  live  in  the  city,  anyhow," 
said  Maria,  glancing  out  of  the  window  and  changing  the 
subject  at  sight  of  the  free  sky  and  glad  sunshine.  "  I 
never  did  live  there,  'n'  I  never  'tend  to.  It  makes  a  body 
feel  like  you  wa'n't  nothin'  't  all.  Here  ye  can  git  yer 
breath  'n'  spread  yerself  over  's  much  groun'  's  ye  like, 
but  there  a  man's  life  ain't  no  more  count  'n  a  red  ant's  is 
in  the  country.  That  makes  a  feller  feel  so  little  'n'  mean. " 

"But  they 's  more  style  there,"    said    Mrs.    Pugsley, 


1 8  2  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

rousing  herself  and  speaking  with  interest.  "  Ye  can  git 
the  latest  things  cheap  in  them  second-hand  stores  on 
Fourth  Street.  I  went  in  'n'  looked  aroun . " 

"  They's  orfle  deceitful  folks  in  them  cities/7  remarked 
Ephraim,  gnawing  a  bone  and  speaking  with  an  air  of 
paternal  wisdom.  "  I  doubt  if  it's  good  to  raise  a  fam'ly 
o'  gals  in  these  'ere  towns/" 

"  I  hate  deceitful  people,"  affirmed  Maria,  who  always 
had  a  great  deal  to  say  on  this  subject.  "  'N'  that's  one 
reason  why  I  wouldn't  like  to  live  in  a  town.  A  feller 
never  d'  know  what  or  who  folks  was.  Seems  like  the 
proper  caper  there  's  to  let  on  't  ye're  suthin'  't  ye  reely 
ain't;  that's  city  folks' stronghold.  I  say  the  strongest 
man  's  the  one  't  's  strong  'nough  jes  to  be  hisself  'n' 
nothin'  else.  It's  all  right  to  mistake  mica  fer  gold  in  the 
sands  o'  the  river,  'n'  sech.  Nater  don't  seem  to  know  no 
better  sometimes  'n'  to  seem  what  she  ain't  ;  but  folks 
orter  know  better.  I  hate  a  man  't  '11  go  'roun'  with  the 
demure,  pious  look  o'  a  Mexican  mule,  'n'  all  to  wunst 
kick  out  behind  'n'  send  ye  flying  sky-high.  They're  a 
crafty  lot,  them  city  fellers.  They's  lots  o'  'em  whose 
only  honor  is  their  aptness  at  lyin',  'n'  yit  they'd  make 
ye  think  they  was  heavenly  churribs,  they've  got  that 
mount  o'  cheelc.  Excuse  me  from  them,  please/'  she 
finished,  with  a  show  of  elaborate  politeness. 

Billy  laughed. 

"I  hate  deceitful  folks,  too,"  he  said. 

"Lor'  yes.  Have  'nother  pertater.  They's  plenty 
more  in  the  kittle. " 

"No  more  pertaters,  thankee." 

"Well,  'nother  chunk  o'  the  chicken,  then.  Dad,  ain't 
that  a  wing  over  there  to  the  fur  end  o'  the  dish?  Give 
'im  that.  Ye  like  the  wing,'  don't  ye  ? " 

"Yes,  it's  a  wing,"  said  Maud  Eliza,  peering  into  the 
dish  and  identifying  the  morsel  by  lifting  it  half-way  out 


//V  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 83 

of  the  gravy  with  her  fork.      ' '  I  had  the  other  one  after  I 
finished  the  wish-bone." 

"  Pass  yer  plate, then,  Billy.     Dad,  give  'im  the  wing." 

"Well,  if  it  is  a  wing — "  said  Billy,  lifting  his  plate. 

But  at  this  juncture  an  almost  tragic  interruption  oc 
curred.  Mrs.  Pugsley,  whose  fluctuations  of  humility 
and  arrogance  could  never  be  calculated  beforehand, 
suddenly  dropped  her  blasted-by-disappointment  air  and 
spoke  with  unexpected  authority. 

"Ephraim,  711  take  the  wing  !  "  she  cried,  thrusting  her 
plate  in  front  of  Billy's  with  a  regal  movement. 

There- was  a  moment  of  painful  silence. 

"  Why,  ma  !  "  cried  Maria,  taken  by  surprise  and  unable 
to  grapple  with  the  difficulties  of  the  situation. 

1  Til  take  the  wing,"  repeated  Mrs.  Pugsley  in  an  awful 
tone,  tilting  her  plate  from  side  to  side  impatiently.  "I 
reckon  I'm  in  my  own  house  V  at  my  own  table  'n'  have 
a  right  to  say  suthi'n  'bout  what's  to  go  into  my  own  in- 
sides  !  " 

"But  Billy  paid  for  it,"  said  Maria,  faintly. 

Billy  had  replaced  his  plate  on  the  table  in  front  of  him 
and  was  laughing  good-naturedly. 

"  Oh,  let  'er  have  it,  "  he  said,  without  a  trace  of  the 
embarrassment  Maria  expected  him  to  show.  4  *  I'd  ruther 
have  the  other  leg,  anyhow.  I  didn't  see  it  was  there 
when  I  said  I'd  take  the  wing. " 

Maria  gave  him  a  grateful  look. 

"  Ye're  the  best  natered  feller  I  ever  see,"  she  said,  with 
something  like  enthusiasm.  "Lor',  yer  mustn't  mind 
ma.  She  ain't  well,  ye  know." 

Billy  flushed  blissfully. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  he  said. 

"My  health  wa'n't  never  better,"  asserted  the  moist 
woman,  gnawing  her  wing  defiantly.  "Ye  needn't  try 
to  make  a  case  out  o'  that,  Marian  'N'  I  reckon  a  woo- 


184  Of  7&E  VALLEY  OF  HA  riLAPT. 

man  has  a  right  to  her  say-so  wunst  in  a  while  in  her  own 
house  V  to  her  own  table,  sick  or  well." 

Maria  did  not  cany  the  subject  farther,  and  while  they 
were  eating  their  dessert, — the  * '  apple  grunt "  which  Maud 
Flrra  had  eulogized  the  day  before — Maria  said  : 

"  I'm  goin*  to  leave  the  dishes  fer  ye  to  do  all  by  yer- 
seif  this  time,  Maud  Eliza.     I  got  every  speck  o*  the  din 
ner  'n*  it's  only  fair.     I  want  to  git  out  into  the  fresh  air 
V  take  a  walk.     Yell   go   with   me,  won't  ye,   Ei. 
ItH  be  better  rn  stayin'  cooped  up  in  the  house.** 

"  Lor*,  yes,  111  go,"  replied  Billy,  eagerly. 

So  when  the  meal  was  ended  they  started  out  together 
in  that  state  of  serenity  which  succeeds  a  comfortable 
dinner  and  puts  one  at  peace  with  one's  self  and  all  the 
world.  The  exalted  state  of  the  human  mind  the  world 
over  is  intimately  connected  with  the  comfortable  fulness 
of  a  reliable : 


•-.-•:.:.:•  .   / r  — .  ~.~A  " 


•n  i 


••CB  VUEBOH 


1 86  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

She  sat  for  some,  moments  watching  the  slow,  grave 
movement  of  the  clouds  and  listening  to  the  murmurous 
sound  of  the  water.  The  noise  made  her  sad  and  dreamy  ; 
it  always  seemed  trying  to  bear  her  away  from  herself 
into  far  distant  lands  where  the  world  was  brighter  and 
life  was  a  thing  to  be  enjoyed  in  beautiful,  indefinite  ways. 
She  forgot  the  river,  the  clouds,  the  sunshine.  Her  face 
grew  as  far  away  in  its  expression  as  were  her  thoughts. 
If  sh-e  was  thinking  at  all,  she  did  not  know  it.  Yet  she 
had  the  wrapt  look  of  one  who  listens  to  inward  music. 

Billy's  voice  broke  in  upon  her  suddenly. 

"  W'y,  what  in  the  world  be  ye  thinkin'  of  ? "  he  cried. 
"  Ye  seemed  gone  'way-off,  like.  Was  ye  dreamin'  ?  " 

The  interruption  annoyed  her  but  she  laughed. 

1 '  I  reckon  I  must  a-been, "  she  said.  ' '  'N'  mighty  hard, 
too,  for  I'd  clean  fergot  where  I  was."  She  looked  out 
once  more  at  the  free  expanse  of  plain  and  mountain 
without  seeming  to  see  them. 

She  took  off  her  bonnet  and  let  it  fall  upon  the  ground 
at  her  side  and  then  sat  staring  down  at  it  in  an  absent 
way.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  Billy  and  said  : 

"  So  yer  mother  was    a  religious  wooman,  was  she? 
.She  must  a-been,  to  read  'er  Bible  so  regular." 
•  "Yes,  she  was  religious, — one  o'  the  best  wimmin  't 

God  ever  made." 

• 

"She  was  better  off  with  'er  religion  'n  she'd  a-been 
'thout,  it  I  make  no  doubt" 

"She  allus  took  great  comfort  in  it,  I  know." 
"  D'ye  reckon  a  feller  could  git  religion  'thout  goin'  to 
all  the  bother  o'  learnin'  to  read  ?  " 

"Lor',  yes,  I've  seen  em,  back  there  in  Ohio." 

•'  I   reckon   I  better   git   religion,  then,"  said   Maria, 

rapidly.     She  made  an  absent  movement  to  pick  up  her 

bonnet,  but  left  it  lying.      "  Mebbe  that 's  what  I  need — 

it  mus'  be,  if  it  makes  folks  better  ;  'n'  then,  it  couldn't  be 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  187 

much  trouble  if  a  feller  didn't  stop  to  read.  I  need  to  be 
better,  Billy  ;  'ri  I'd  like  to  git  religion  if  it  'ud  help  me  to 
behave  myself." 

Billy  smiled,  but  as  soon  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  face 
he  became  serious. 

"  W'y,  ye're  in  earnest !  "  he  said. 

"  O'  course  I'm  in  earnest.  If  they  was  a  preacher  'ere 
I'd  go  'n'  see  'im  to-morrer  'n'  ask  'im  how  to  git  religion." 

"W'y,  it's  all  right  to  git  religion  if  a  feller  can,1'  said 
Billy.  "  But  it  allus  seemed  to  me  like  they  was  only  a 
few  as  can  git  it.  I  don't  fancy  a  feller  can  git  it  jes'  by 
askin'  the  preacher  fer  it.  It's  in  the  nater  o'  some, — sort 
o'  in  the  blood,  'n'  they  can't  no  more  help  havin'  it  'n' 
others  can  help  not  havin'  it.  It  was  a  part  o'  my  mother, 
seems  to  me." 

"'N'  them  't  can't  git  it,  what  rs  goin'  to  'come  o'  them  ?  " 
asked  Maria. 

"Oh,  they'll  burn  in  hell,"  replied  Billy,  calmly,  "if 
the  Lord  don't  have  mercy  on  'em  at  the  Las'  Day." 

"What  a  pleasin'  prospeck  fer  you  'n'  me  !  "  she  said. 
"  Ye  ain't  got  religion  secret-like,  have  ye  ? " 

"Oh,  no,  I  never  could  seem  to  come  up  to  it.  They's 
lots  o'  things  I  can't  b'lieve,  I  keep  a-doubtin'  'n'  a-doubtin'.. 
If  I  could  swoller  the  hull  thing  to  wunst,  I  might  be  all 
right,  but  I  can't.  I  keep  a-thinkin' dif  rent  pints  over,  'n' 
the  more  I  think,  the  more  I  doubt,  I  never  could  make 
it  go." 

She  looked  at  him  with  ready  understanding. 

"That's  the  way  it  'ud be  with  me,  nat'rally,  I'm  afeerd," 
she  said.  "But  mebbe,  's  ye  say,  if  a  feller  'ud  make  up 
his  mind  to  go  the  hull  thing  at  the  start  'n'  never  think  no 
more  'bout  it,  he  might  git  over  the  trouble  o'  doubtin'. 
I  can  see  they  ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  be  religious  with  a 
mind  full  o'  doubts.  Doubt's  the  soul's  consumptive  cough 
—they  ain't  no  mistakin'  what's  a-goin'  to  foller.  I'd  try 


1 88  /AT  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

to  take  the  hull  thing  at  one  lick  'n'  then  never  think  o'  it 
agin.  I  reckon  that  'ud  be  the  best  way. " 

"  Yes,  if  a  feller  could  do  it." 

"Mebbe  I'll  try  it  after  a  while,  if  I  don't  think  of 
nothin'  better,"  said  Maria.  There  was  a  brook  tinkling 
over  its  pebbly  bed  a  little  way  off  and  falling  into  the 
noisy  river ;  she  broke  off  a  piece  of  bark  from  the  log  on 
which  she  was  sitting  and  tossed  it  absently  into  the  clear 
small  current. 

"They  ain't  no  preacher  anywhere  'roun'  'ere  't  I  could 
go  to  ?  "  she  said  after  a  pause. 

-No." 

"Well,  I  d'  know  's  I  care,  nohow.  I  ain't  nat'rally 
fond  o'  the  breed.  Mebbe  it's  jes'  's  well."  She  flung 
another  bit  of  bark  into  the  brook  and  then  said  : 

"Seems  sort  o'  queer  to  think  o'  my  tryin'  to  be  good 
at  this  late  day,  don't  it?  Mebbe  if  I'd  a-commenced 
sooner  it  wouldn't  a-come  so  tough.  But  I  reckon  I  can 
stan'  the  pressure.  Most  folks  't  I've  knowed,"  she  added 
in  faint  self-justification,  "h'ain't  seemed  to  pay  much 
'tention  to  bein'  good.  Most  I've  heerd  of  in  the  way  o' 
good  things  is  money  'n'  grub." 

"Yes,  money!  Everybody  wants  money.  I've  seen 
that  till  I'm  half  sick  o'  the  hull  money-makin'  bizness, 
sometimes.  Money  's  a  good  thing,  but  they's  better 
things  in  the  world  It  ain't  everything. " 

"It  brings  us  into  the  world,  keeps  us  while  we're  in  it, 
'n'  fin'ly  takes  us  out  o'  it,"  said  Maria,  gloomily.  "I 
reckon  it's  a  purty  ne'sary  thing.  If  I  was  a  man,  I  'd  have 
it— heaps  o'  it.  The  thought  o'  gettin'  it  'ud  make  me  feel 
like  I  was  a  hunter,  well-armed  'n'  with  a  bear  in  full 
view.  I'd  have  it  or  die  !  " 

"They's  rich  wimmin  in  the  world  's  well  's  rich  men," 
remarked  Billy. 

"  Yes,  but  they  didn't  earn  it,  'n'  they  don't  count    All 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  i  89 

a  woman  wants  's  'nough  to  eat  'n'  keep  'er  covered.  I 
never  'd  care  to  be  rich,  myself.  But  if  I  was  a  man — " 

"  I'm  glad  ye  ain't  a  man,"  laughed  Billy. 

"Why?" 

"'Cause  then  we  wouldn't  be  a-settin'  'ere  V  talkin'  in 
this  cof table  way." 

She  broke  off  a  larger  piece  of  bark  and  threw  it  into  the 
river  and  watched  it  whirl  away. 

"I'm  glad  ye  like  to  set  'ere  'n'  talk  to  me,"  she  said. 
"  Fer  I  like  it,  too.  'N'  I  like  to  keep  it  in  mind  't  ye've 
been  very  good  to  me  'n'  my  folks,  Billy.  'N'  mebbe 
some  day  the  Lord  '11  let  me  pay  ye  back  with  interest." 

For  the  moment  she  forgot  that  Billy  was  her  lover  and 
remembered  only  that  he  was  her  friend.  His  recent 
attentions  became  but  an  ill-defined  memory  in  contrast 
with  the  many  acts  of  brotherly  kindness  he  had  performed 
for  her.  Her  voice,  serious  and  grateful,  made  him  look 
into  her  eyes  eagerly.  She  saw  in  an  instant  that  he  had 
mistaken  her  meaning,  that  he  interpreted  her  gratitude  as 
a  more  intimate  feeling.  She  did  not  want  him  to  tell  her 
that  he  loved  her — -just  yet ;  he  might  act  it,  but  not  speak 
it ;  sometime,  perhaps,  she  would  allow  it,  but  not  now, 
— she  was  not  in  the  mood  to-day.  She  wanted  to  con 
sider  him  her  good  brother  to  whom  she  could  go  in 
trouble,  sure  of  his  sympathy  and  help ;  but  she  did  not 
want  a  lover.  Poor  Billy  !  why  could  he  not  understand? 
She  had  but  one  weapon  with  which  to  beat  him  back — 
a  woman's  surest,  most  terrible  weapon — mockery ,  she 
felt  as  if  she  were  a  cruel  woman  to  use  it, — he  would 
look  so  pitiful  with  the  hope  passing  out  of  his  face.  But 
what  else  could  she  do  ?  There  was  no  use  trying  to 
think  of  him  just  yet  as  a  lover. 

"Thankee  fer  them  words,"  he  said,  unconscious  of  the 
change  which  had  taken  place  in  her  thoughts.  "I've 
been  thinkin',  Maria — " 


190 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


She  dropped  her  hands  on  her  knees  and  stared  at  him 
with  eyes  full  of  mock  incredulity.  She  did  not  speak 
for  a  moment  after  interrupting  him  by  her  movement, 
but  the  time  was  long  enough  for  him  to  experience  the 
alienation  which  accompanies  an  ill-timed  silence. 

"  Ye've  been  thinkin'  ?  No!  Did  it  make  ye  tired  ?" 
She  asked  with  solicitude.  The  changed  voice  fell  upon 
his  ear  like  a  discord ;  he  felt  her  altered  mood  like  a 
chill  in  the  air.  When  he  tried  to  speak  again,  something, 
he  could  not  tell  what,  had  passed  from  him  and  he 
could  not  bring  it  back.  She  had  placed  him  at  a  dis 
tance,  her  mind  was  out  of  touch  with  his. 

"Oh,  be  serious/*  he  said,  appealingly,  answering  her 
look  with  a  forced,  tremulous  smile,  and  feeling  weak  in 
the  contest  of  words  which  she  had  begun.  "  As  I  said, 
I've  been  thinkin' — " 

"'N'  he  still  lives  !  "  cried  she,  flourishing  her  hand  to 
wards  the  mountains  as  if  to  call  their  attention  to  a  sur 
prising  fact.  Billy  straightened  himself  on  the  log  and 
looked  offended.  He  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  her 
ridicule,  and  why  did  she  persist  in  it? 

"  Don't  tell  me  what  'tis  ye've  been  thinkin'  'bout.  I 
won't  hear  it,"  she  cried,  shaking  her  head  positively  as 
she  saw  him  about  to  open  his  lips.  The  affair  was 
really  becoming  tragic  to  Maria ;  it  cut  her  to  the  soul  to 
treat  him  so/  but  she  knew  no  other  way.  Her  voice 
caught  a  note  of  fierceness  even  in  its  mirthless  mockery. 
"I  tell  ye  I  won't — I  won't !  I  know  I  wouldn't  b'lieve 
it,  s.o  what's  the  use  !  'N'  sides  Billy,  I've  been  think- 
in' .lately  too." 

"  Well  ?  "  he  asked,  patiently. 

She  laughed  spasmodically. 

"  It's  'bout  the. Bible — it's  been  a-runnin'  in  my  head 
lately,  'n'  ye  'member  I  told  ye  I  used  to  read  it  some. 
'N'  here  'n'  there  a  idee  sticks  to  me,  when  I  managed  to 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 9 1 

spell  out  the  words,  ye'll  have  to  listen  clost  to  under- 
stan'  me.  They's  a  heap  o'  fine  reasonin'  in  it — I've  been 
thinkin'  't  the  Lord  couldn't  a-ben  good  company. '' 

Billy  opened  his  eyes  wide. 

"  Listen,*' she  cried.  "The  Bible  proves  it.  For  else 
why  was  Adam  lonely  in  the  garden  o'  Eden  with  God 
for  a  friend  'n'  companion  ?  " 

Billy  opened  his  mouth  in  sympathy  with  his  eyes. 

"Well  /can't  see  what  ye're  drivin'  at — mebbe  ye  can 
yerself, "  he  said.  The  fact  was  that  Maria  herself  did  not 
see  very  plainly  whither  her  words  tended,  but  she  must 
say  something  to  prevent  him  from  declaring  himself. 

"Listen  ag'in.  It's  nat'ral  fer  pepple  to  want  to  git 
married,  ain't  it  ?  We've  inherited  it  from  Adam  down." 

"Yes,  it's  a  nat'ral  thing."  He  was  quite  certain  on 
that  point. 

"Well,  then,"  cried  Maria,  stabbing  at  nothing  with 
her  finger  as  if  impaling  her  opinion  on  the  air,  "I'm  a 
onnat'ral  critter, — I'm  out  o'  Adam's  seed  entirely, — I 
ain't  human,  like  other  folks  be,  fer  I'm  sot  agin  marryin'. 
Now,  I  don't  want  to  hear  what  ye've  been  thinkin'  'bout. 
I'm  busy."  And  she  picked  up  her  bonnet  and  com 
menced  plaiting  the  strings. 

Her  meaning  was  plain  enough,  though  he  did  not  un 
derstand  it  in  detail.  She  did  not  care  for  him  as  an 
lover,  only  as  a  friend.  What  need  of  understanding 
more  ?  The  conviction  filled  him  with  a  dull  pain,  like 
the  aching  of  diseased  nerves.  And  she  sat  there 
through  it  all,  composed  and  smiling,  evidently  caring 
for  nothing.  All  at  once  by  one  of  those  movements  of 
contrast  in  the  mind  which  make  us  think  of  comical  things 
at  tragic  moments,  a  couplet  came  into  his  head  which 
he  had  heard  the  miners  sing  to  a  rickety,  tuneless  air  : 

"  'Tis  sweet  to  love,  but  oh,  'tis  bitter 
To  love  a  gal  and  then  not  git  heiy 


1 9  2  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

and  he  broke  into  a  harsh  laugh.  Maria  looked  up,  sur 
prised. 

"I  wa'n't  laughin'  at  ye,"  he  said  apologetically,  as  if 
she  had  accused  him.  "It  was  at  my  own  thoughts." 
Then  he  went  on  more  slowly  :  "I  won't  tell  ye  what  I 
started  to,  if  ye  don't  want  to  hear  ;  prob'ly  it's  the  las' 
time  I'll  ever  mention  it  to  ye  ;  prob'ly " 

"Well,  we  can  be  friends  jes'  the  same,  can't  we?" 
she  asked. 

"Yes,  we  can  be  friends,  I  reckon.  That's  the  next 
bes'  thing,  ain't  it?  "  And  he  laughed  drearily.  Then  he 
was  silent  a  moment  or  two  and  she  did  not  dare  to 
speak.  But  all  at  once  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  turned 
on  her  with  an  impulse  of  suspicion,  and  there  was  a 
rough,  undeliberated  demand  in  his  voice  as  he  cried, 
"  D'ye  love  anybody  else,  Maria?  Tell  me  the  truth — I 
can  stan'  it  better  'n  bein'  left  uncertain.  Do  ye  love  any 
other  man  ? " 

She  smiled,  even  while  she  looked  up  at  him  anxiously. 

«No — no  one  else,"  she  answered,  and  she  thought  she 
spoke  the  truth. 

"Not  even— that  Hulse?  " 

She  rose  also  and  faced  him  boldly,  unflinchingly,  for 
as  far  as  she  knew  she  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Her  face 
was  on  a  level  with  his  and  he  could  note  its  every  feature. 
*  "That's  a  silly  question,"  she  said  in  a  tone  of  grave 
offense.  "O'  course  I  don't  love — that  Hulse.  How 
could  I  when— when  I  hate  '  im  ?  I  'member  ye  hinted 
at  that  wunst  afore,  down  to  the  house,  there.  I  tell  ye  I 
don't  love  nobody,  'n'  moreover  I  don't  want  to  if  it's 
a-goin'  to  make  me  pester  other  folks  the  way  it  makes 
ye  pester  me." 

He  was  instantly  sorry  for  his  words,  and  tried  to  take 
her  hand.  But  she  drew  it  away. 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  1 93 

• 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  gently.  But  she  turned  her  back 
and  seemed  not  to  listen. 

"  I  didn't  think  what  I  was  doin',"  he  went  on,  plead 
ingly.  "Ye  ain't  mad  at  me,  then,  be  ye  ?  See,  Mariar  ; 
I'm  sorry.  Ye  won't  hate  me  'cause  I  fergot  myself  fer  a 
minute,  will  ye  ? " 

"  I  ain't  mad  at  ye,"  she  answered,  coldly.  "But  it's 
time  to  go  home.  Come.'' 

"'N'  we're  friends  ?"  he  asked  anxiously. 
"  Yes,  we're  friends.     I  told  ye  so,  didn't  I  ?     'N'  didn't 
I  tell  ye  I  cared  more  fer  ye  'n  fer  any  man  in  the  world. 
Ye  orter  a-b'lieved  me.     Come." 

Her  tone  was  reassuring,  but  not  warm. 
"'N'  sometime,  Mariar — don't  git  mad  at  me  fer  sayin' 
it,  but  seems  like  I  can't  help  myself  to-day — sometime 
ye'll  lemme  speak  o'  it  agin,  after  ye've  had  a  chance  to 
think  it  over  'n'  decide  ?     Ye  won't  ferbid  me  that  ?  " 

"No,  I  won't  ferbid  ye.  But  not  now.  Ye  mus'  wait 
a  long  time.  I'll  have  trouble,  I'm  afeerd,  in  makin'  up 
my  mind.  'N'  now  let's  go.  The  sun's  low  on  the 
mountains." 

They  went  back  to  the  cabin  together  and  he  left  her  at 
the  gate.  He  had  not  made  an  explicit  declaration  of 
passion,  neither  had  he  been  unconditionally  rejected. 
Yet  she  seemed  drifting  hopelessly  away  from  him,  caring 
for  the  pain  she  left  behind  her  only  in  the  selfish  sense 
that  she  was  glad  to  be  free  from  it.  She  felt  no  pain  in 
their  alienation.  For  a  brief  moment  he  felt  like  turning 
back,  grasping  her  and  dragging  her  to  him  and  forcing 
her  somehow  to  share  his  misery — like  hurting  her  so  that 
she  would  remember  as  vividly  as  he  must  remember. 
But  he  did  nothing.  He  was  so  strong  in  his  love  that  he 
could  bear  a  great  strain  in  silence.  But  his  silence  was 
full  of  bitterness. 

He  passed  up  the  gentle  incline  between  the  river  and 
13 


194  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

the  foothills,  but  at  the  mouth  of  the  little  canon  he  paused. 
It  looked  so  dark  and  lonesome  in  there,  he  did  not  want 
to  go  in  ;  he  knew  beforehand  just  how  dark  and  heavy 
the  shadows  would  seem,  how  the  rocks  would  shut  out 
the  sunshine  on  all  sides  and  leave  nothing  bright  any 
where  but  the  narrow  strip  of  sky  floating  like  a  blue 
ribbon  far  above.  He  sat  down  drearily  at  the  entrance 
of  the  canon  and  looked  out  across  the  valley.  He  would 
never  speak  to  her  again  on  the  subject  of  his  love  ;  how 
could  he  with  the  consciousness  of  this  rebuff  between 
them  ?  Billy  was  quite  ignorant  of  the  proverbial  elas 
ticity  of  lovers'  hopes,  and  had  no  idea  that  in  a  week's 
time  he  would  be  as  hopeful  and  happy  as  ever. 

The  sun  was  setting  redly  and  the  river  caught  the  light 
wherever  the  water  was  visible  between  the  trees.  He 
watched  the  current  dashing  from  light  to  gloom,  from 
gloom  to  light,  and  reappearing  far  down  the  valley  as  red 
as  if  the  sunset  were  rolling  in  a  long-drawn  cloud  toward 
the  folded  ridges  of  the  hills  below.  Then  the  west  dark 
ened  and  shook  with  heavy  wind-swung  fabrics  of  sky. 
It  was  growing  cold,  too.  He  would  not  look  any  more ; 
he  must  go  home.  He  turned  and  entered  the  little  canon. 
Behind  him  the  torn  fringes  of  the  worn-out  day  dragged 
heavily  on  the  mountains  ;  the  sunset  lights  changed  ; 
finally  the  dark  edges  of  the  clouds  grew  darker,  a  vivid 
yellow  leaped  up  where  the  red  had  been  and  the  heavens 
were  a  broad  glare  of  Austrian  black  and  gold.  But  Billy 
was  now  in  the  canon  and  could  not  see.  He  would  not 
have  thought  it  remarkable  had  he  seen  that  gorgeous 
sight  to-night.  What  did  it  matter  how  the  sunset  be 
haved  ?  Or  how  dark  the  canon  was,  or  how  desolate 
the  cabin  by  the  singing  waterfall  ?  Nothing  mattered  in 
this  miserable  world.  But  he  was  tired  and  wanted  to 
rest.  He  "would  go  in  and  He  down  and  maybe  he  would 
die  before  morning,  would  she  care?  he  wondered.  A 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  ^5 

little,  maybe — a  very  little.  The  world  was  so  different 
from  the  world  of  this  afternoon  when  he  had  set  out  to 
see  her.  Well,  well  !  It  did  not  matter.  He  had  lived 
up  to  his  motto  ;  he  had  failed,  trying. 


196  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LA  ft. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

"WELL,  I'm  tired  to  death  o'  stayin'  in  doors  'n'  I'd  like 
to  git  out  som'ers  'ri  see  suthin.  I  ain't  hardly  been  out 
side  o'  the  gate  fer  two  days.  I  feel  like  I  hain't  seen  a 
livin'  bein'  but  you  'n'  pa  'n'  ma  sence  I's  borned.  Let's 
go  fer  a  walk,  Marian" 

Maud  Eliza  had  come  out  upon  the  veranda  where 
Maria  stood  admiring  the  roses.  The  sun  was  setting,  and 
in  the  sky  beyond  the  far  mountains,  pale  green  clouds 
floated  like  shadows  down  under  the  sea. 

Maria  turned  absently. 

"  Well,  I  don't  mind.  They  ain't  nothin'  to  do  here. 
Ye  go  'n'  fetch  our  sun-bunnits  while  I  make  sure  ma's 
all  right  afore  leavin'  'er."  And  Maud  Eliza  skipped  glee 
fully  away. 

"  Ye  hadn't  better  go  down  through  town,"  said 
Ephraim,  meeting  Maria  at  the  door.  "Ole  Samjny'sgot 
'er  eye  on  ye.  She  's  swore  to  thump  ye  black  'n'  blue 
the  fust  time  she  ketches  ye  on  the  street." 

"I've  been  on  the  street  sev'ral  times  'n'  she  ain't 
thumped  me  yit,"  returned  Maria. 

"That's  'cause  she  didn't  happen  to  see  ye.  I  heerd 
this  mornin'  't  she  was  layin'  fer  ye  'n'  't  she  was  tearin' 
mad  'cause  she  hain't  happend  to  ketch  ye  afore  now." 

"I  ain't  afeerd  o'ole  Sammy," said  Maria,  indifferently. 

"She  meant  it  when  she  said  it,"  persisted  Ephrarm. 
" 'N'  ye'd  better  look  out.  She  ain't  got  over  what  ye 
said  to  'er  the  day  we  come  to  Havilah,'n'  she  ''s  swore 
she'll  have  it  out  with  ye.  Ye  better  take  keer." 

Maria  sniffed  contemptuously. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  197 

"I  don't  see  what  makes  ye  so  keerful  o'  me  all  to 
wunst,"  she  said.  "  It  seems  to  a-took  ye  all  o'  a  sudden t, 
like  a  spasm." 

Ephraim  looked  really  troubled. 

"If  ye  was  to  git  into  a  fight  with  'er  on  the  street,  d'ye 
see,  it  might  make  a  difrencewith  Billy's  feelin's  towaids 
ye.  That  's  what  I'm  afeerd  of.  Billy's  feelin's  is  very 
dellycut." 

Maria  laughed.  Her  father's  selfish  solicitude  for  her 
was  explained. 

"I  ain't  afeerd,"  she  repeated.  "I  can  fight  if  I  have 
to.  'N'  I'm  sprier  'n  ole  Sammy  is,  any  day.  Is  they 
anything  ye  want  afore  I  go,  ma  ? " 

"Oh,  don't  mind  me,"  quavered  Mrs.  Pugsley,  turning 
her  head  from  side  to  side  in  moist  languor.  "  I  ain't  no 
'count.  Don't  think  o'  me.  I  ain't  in  this  'ere  world  to  be 
thought  of.  Nobody  ain't  proud  o'  me.  Go  'long  'n'  don't 
mind  me  !  " 

Maria  arranged  the  blankets  cafefully,  smoothed  back 
her  mother's  hair  with  a  light  hand  and  pinned  a  news 
paper  across  the  window  so  that  the  late  sunshine  might 
not  enter  and  fall  upon  her  face.  Then  Maud  Eliza  came 
in  with  their  bonnets,  and  the  two  girls  set  out. 

The  sunset  clouds  had  deepened  and  were  as  rosy  as 
pomegranate  blossoms.  The  wind  blew  freely  down  from 
the  foot-hills ;  it  was  like  a  voice  and  a  touch  from  the 
clouds. 

"  I  like  this,"  said  Maria,  with  keen  enjoyment  of  the 
pure  air. 

41  So  d'  I,"  said  Maud  Eliza,  "  It's  a  heap  better  *n  stayin' 
there  in  the  house  ferever.  'Sides,"  she  added  with  a 
titter,  "they's  lots  o'  men  'bout  the  saloons  at  this  time 
o'  day.  Let's  go  right  through  camp  !  " 

"I'd  ruther  take  the  path  by  the  river,"  answered 
Maria,  "we  can  hear  the  water  there." 


1 98  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  hear  the  water,"  persisted  Maud 
Eliza.  "I  didn't  come  out  to  hear  water.  I  want  to  go 
through  camp.  Don't  be  mean,  now.  Come  on  !  " 

"I  sha'n't  go  that  way,"  declared  Maria,  stopping. 

"O,  come  on!"  urged  Maud  Eliza,  pulling  at  her 
dress. 

"I  sha'n't!  I  don't  want  a  passel  o'  men  gawpin'  at 
me  'n'  makin'  remarks.  I'll  go  back  if  ye  won't  go  by 
the  river." 

"  It  'ud  be  a  heap  better  fer  all  o'  us  if  ye  'd  let  the  men 
look  at  ye  a  little  more,"  said  Maud  Eliza,  not  without 
bitterness. 

" Shall  we  goby  the  river?"  asked  Maria,  impatiently. 

"No,  I  sha'n't  go  that  way.,  I  come  out  to  see  'n'  be 
seen,  'n'  I'm  agoin'  to  do  it  or  know  the  reason  why." 

"I'll  go  back  if  ye  won't  go  by  the  river,"  repeated 
Maria. 

"  Go  back  !  "  screeched  Maud  Eliza.  "  Jes'  hear  'er.  Go 
back  ?  Oh,  yes,  that's  a  nice  excuse  to  say  ye  don't  like 
bein'  stared  at  by  the  men.  That's  a  sweet  excuse,  that 
is  !  I  heard  what  dad  was  tellin'  ye  'bout  ole  Sammy. 
Ye're  afeerd  o'  'er — that's  what's  the  matter  o'  ye — ye're 
afeerd  o'  ole  Sammy  !  " 

"I  ain't!"  cried  Maria,  flushing  at  the  imputation  of 
cowardice. 

"Ye  be,  too,  or  else  ye'd  go  straight  a-past  'er  ole 
saloon  with  yer  nose  in  the  air.  It's  jes'  what  ye  orter  do 
to  show  'er  how  much  ye  think  o'  her  threatenin'  ye.  It's 
cowards  't  goes  sneakin'  down  back  ways  'n'  hates  to  be 
seen,  ye're  afeerd  o'  ole  Samanthy  !  " 

"I  don't  go  sneakin'  down  no  back  ways,  'n' I  ain't 
afeerd  o'  fifty  ole  Samanthys  !  "  flashed  back  Maria,  red 
der  than  ever. 

"Prove  it !  "  retorted  Maud  Eliza,  following  up  her  ad- 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  \  99 

vantage.      "  Prove  it  by  sailin' straight  through  camp  'i\' 
past  'er  place  with  colors  flyin' !  " 

' '  I  w  ill  pro  ve  it!"  cried  Maria,  with  dilated  nostrils. 
"  She  hadn't  no  bizness  to  threaten  me  in  the  fust  place. 
I  ain't  afeerd  o'  old  Sammy  nor  ole  Harry  nor  .nobody. 
Come  on  !  " 

And  they  started  on  again,  Maria  in  advance. 

Our  actions  are  the  obedient  children  of  our  thoughts. 
From  any  deed  which  might  bear  the  construction  of 
cowardice  Maria  shrunk  back,  strongly  remonstrant ;  for 
the  unpurposed  result  of  all  her  training  had  been  to  make 
her  able  to  take  care  of  herself — even  to  find  occasion  for 
demonstrating  that  ability.  At  Maud  Eliza's  taunts  she 
had  started  up  with  the  fire  of  a  soldier  who  has  a  stand 
ard  to  defend  ;  the  impulse  of  the  moment  was  the  sum 
mary  of  all  the  habits  of  her  life.  But  she  had  gone  only 
a  few  steps  toward  the  main  part  of  the  camp  before  she 
commenced  to  regret  her  hasty  yielding.  Her  ideas 
of  true  womanliness  had  been  changing  of  late.  She 
wished  she  had  not  noticed  Maud  Eliza's  taunts.  But  it 
was  too  late  now  to  retreat.  She  could  not  face  her 
sister's  certain  ridicule.  Besides,  old  Samantha  might 
not  catch  sight  of  her,  after  all. 

They  walked  on,  Maud  Eliza,  as  in  duty  bound,  exer 
cising  her  tittering  powers  with  vigor.  She  kept  close 
enough  to  nudge  her  sister  in  the  ribs  whenever  she 
made  an  unusually  silly  remark  about  "ketchin'  a  beau." 
Maria  was  accustomed  to  this  kitten-like  friskiness  of  her 
sister,  but  to-day  it  annoyed  her. 

"  I  wish  't  ye'd  keep  still  fn'  behave  yerself !  "  she  cried, 
impatiently.  "I  hate  a  gal  't  goes  snickerin'  'n'  snortin' 
all  over  the  valley  !  " 

But  Maud  Eliza,  having  her  own  views  of  the  quickest 
and  surest  way  of  attracting  a  beau,  paid  no  attention  to 
this  remonstrance.  As  they  approached  Sammy's  place 


200  tN  THE   VALLEY  OF 

Maria  acknowledged  to  herself  that  her  heart  was  beating 
a  little  faster.  She  was  sorry  she  had  come.  She  had  no 
wish  to  make  a  spectacle  of  herself.  Perhaps  she  dreaded 
the  thought  of  an  encounter  more  than  the  encounter 
itself,  for,  being  in,  she  was  likely  to  make  the  opposed 
aware  of  her.  If  there  should  be  a  row,  Billy  would  be 
sure  to  hear  of  it — and  that  Jim  Hulse.  Billy  might  jus 
tify  her  in  defending  herself  if  she  were  attacked,  but  Hulse, 
— she  could  imagine  the  look  on  his  face  when  he  heard  . 
of  it, — neither  laughing  nor  sneering,  but  contemptuous. 
He  would  look  as  if  she  had  done  something  to  confirm 
his  idea  of  women.  And  that  would  be  unbearable.  She 
did  not  wish  to  confirm  his  idea  of  women — she  wanted 
to  be  something  unique  and  impressive  in  his  experience. 
How  she  wished  she  had  not  come  !  However,  there 

was  yet  hope.     Old  Sammy  might  see  them,  and  then 

They  were  almost  in  front  of  the  saloon  now.  Maria 
drew  her  sun-bonnet  over  her  face  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
the  sky  in  front  of  her.  Maud  Eliza  was  tittering  and  the 
men  were  staring.  Maria  felt  their  eyes  upon  her  with  a 
sense  of  shame.  "Come  on,"  she  whispered  hurriedly. 
Something  had  risen  within  her  which  made  her  resentful 
of  the  bold  looks  of  these  rough  men.  Time  was  when 
she  would  have  returned  their  rude  stares  with  interest 
and  taken  a  coarse  pride  in  "  getting  even  "  with  a  sharp 
retort.  This  old  spirit  had  thrilled  her  at  the  moment  of 
Maud  Eliza's  taunts,  but  it  was  all  gone  now.  She  held 
her  breath  as  she  passed  the  saloon  door,  her  heart 
stopped  beating  for  a  moment.  They  were  past  now  ;  yes, 
they  were  safe  for  this  time — no  !  There  was  a  rush  of 
heavy  feet  from  the  doorway,  and  Maria  felt  her  arm 
seized  from  behind.  With  a  wild  palpitating  fear,  such  as 
she  had  never  known  in  all  her  life  before,  she  opened 
her  lips  to  scream,  but  she  was  breathless  and  could  utter 


/Af  THE  VALLEY  of  HAVILAH.  2oi 

no  sound.     It  was  like  a  hideous  nightmare  from  which 
she  could  not  awaken. 

The  clutch  on  her  arm  tightened  and  she  felt  herself 
whirled  around  so  as  to  face  the  group  of  men  who  were 
grinning  at  her  from  the  platform  in  front  of  the  saloon. 
Then  the  grasp  on  her  arm  relaxed,  and  she  found  herself 
face  to  face  with  old  Samanth'a. 

After  that  first  breathless  gasp,  Maria  felt  cool  and  equal 
to  the  occasion.  The  old  conscious  strength  returned, 
and  her  first  thought  was  to  be  glad  that  she  had  not 
screamed.  She  fixed  her  undismayed  eyes  on  Samantha's 
face  with  the  boldness  of  perfect  self-confidence. 

The  giantess  was  looking  inhuman,  almost  tigerish. 
There  are  still  unclassified  animals  in  remote  corners  of 
the  globe  ;  and  women  who- are  exceptions  to  the  general 
rule  are  met  with  in  society  every  day.  Samantha  w^s 
an  unclassified  woman.  She  could  hardly  be  called  either 
beast  or  human,  but  as  a  hybrid  she  had  somehow  come 
into  possession  of  all  the  evil  qualities  of  men  and  brutes. 

Maria  stared  at  her  without  flinching,  then  glanced 
down  the  street  with  an  indifferent  air,  at  the  crowd  of 
grinning  men,  now  rapidly  increasing,  and  at  the  saloon 
window  in  which  a  scorbutic  plum-cake  figured  dismally 
in  proximity  to  a  plate  of  crummy  pastry,  bearing  the 
placard  in  big  letters,  "  ANACONDY  DOWNUTS."  She  noticed 
Samantha's  gurgling  baby  sprawling  contentedly  over  a 
beer  barrel,  and  that  it  wore  a  dingy  white  dress  with  little 
red  spots  in  it  that  looked  like  measles.  Then  her  eyes 
wandered  back  to  Samantha.  The  woman  was  clothed 
in  a  faded  buff  gown  which,  Maria  thought  with  a  dreary 
sense  of  her  own  originality,  fitted  across  her  broad  hips 
like  an  immense  blister. 

The  giantess  regarded  her  victim  in  gloating  silence. 

"Well,"  said  Maria,  with  a  slight  lifting  of  her  head. 
44  What  d'ye  want  o'  me?" 


202  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Samantha  patted  her  on  the  shoulder,  leering  and  nod 
ding. 

"  I  've  got  suthin'  good  fer  ye,"  she  said  with  a  knowing 
wink  at  the  increasing  crowd. 

"Any  plums  in  it?"  asked  Maria  with  cool  impudence. 

Samantha  glowered  at  her. 

"  Plums  in  it !  "  she  cried,  raising  her  voice  and  shaking 
her  dishevelled  head  threateningly,  "Don't  gimme  none 
o'  yer  sass,  ye  hussy!  Plums  in  it?  ye'll  git  suthin'  'sides 
plums,  ye  cat !  Oh,  ye're  a  purty  one,jyou  air.  He,  he !  " 

By  this  time  the  crowd  had  increased  and  formed  a 
circle  around  the  two  women.  The  scent  of  battle  must 
have  been  in  the  air,  for,  men,  women,  children  and  dogs 
came  trooping  out  of  the  scattered  shanties  as  if  conjured 
up  by  the  wand  of  an  enchanter.  The  number  of  human 
Beings  crowded  into  those  few  hovels  was  incredible. 
Havilah  was  in  high  glee.  At  least  two  weeks  had  elapsed 
since  the  last  street-fight  between  women,  and  the  citizens 
were  beginning  to  feel  the  need  of  excitement.  The  small 
boys  were  particularly  jubilant. 

"A  scrappin'-match,  by  hen  !  "  howled  one,  writhing 
with  unholy  joy,  "Come  on,  Jimmy,  quick!  Crawl  in 
atween  this  'ere  feller's  legs  if  ye  want  ter  see  it.  My 
buttons,  what  a  circus  ? " 

' '  Ladies  and  gentlemen, "  preambled  old  Sammy,  placing 
her  immense  left  hand  on  her  hip  and  waving  her  right 
toward  Maria,  while  she  surveyed  her  audience  with  the 
benevolent  consciousness  of  playing  an  interesting  part 
for  their  amusement,  "that  air  wooman  orter  be  dead  'n' 
buried  'thout  a  coffin  !  " 

This  statement  did  not  seem  to  affect  the  audience 
greatly.  The  citizens  of  Havilah  were  too  much  accus 
tomed  to  burying  people  without  coffins  to  perceive  any 
thing  startling  in  the  allusion.  Samantha  realized  the 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  203 

disappointment  of  her  beginning  and  tacked  off  again  on 
Maria's  looks. 

"  Ye're  a  purty  one, you  air,"  she  cried  with  fine  scorn, 
turning  again  to  her  victim.  "  Ye're  a  fine  specimen, 
jyou  air!  I'd  like  a  hull  case  full  o'  'em  \ike_you.  Oh, 
yes,  I  would  !  " 

The  audience  tittered  appreciatively,  but  Maria,  though 
her  temper  was  rising,  kept  silent. 

"I  reckon  ye're  mighty  proud  o'  that  complexion  o' 
your'n,"  continued  Samantha,  "ye'll  need  a  quarter  o' 
beef  to  poultice  it  with,  though,  afore  ye  say  good-bye 
to  me.  Complexion  !  Hoo  !  Lord  !  If  /  had  sech  a 
complexion " 

"  But  ye  hain't,"  said  Maria,  keeping  her  voice  steady 
by  a  great  effort.  Your'n  ain't  no  yallerer  'n  the  av'rage 
Missoury  female's.'' 

At  this  everybody  laughed  and  several  men  clapped 
their  hands  as  if  at  a  play.  Your  Californian  enjoys  an 
imputation  on  the  climate  of  Missouri. 

For  a  moment  Samantha  seemed  minded  to  rush  upon 
her  victim  and  end  the  battle  without  further  verbal  pre 
liminaries,  but  her  tongue  as  well  as  her  fists  had  a  reputa 
tion  in  Havilah,  and  she  was  resolved  to  sustain  both. 
The  fight  could  keep  for  a  few  moments.  She  had  no 
intention  of  endangering  her  reputation  as  the  hardest- 
mouthed  woman  in  camp,  of  which  she  was  notoriously 
proud.  She  determined  to  come  out  victorious  in  a  war 
of  words  as  well  as  blows. 

Maria  had  taken  off  her  sun-bonnet,  and  was  holding  it 
in  her  hands  in  front  of  her. 

"Lord,  look  at  the  mug  o'  'er !  "  shrieked  Samantha, 
throwing  up  both  hands  with  boisterous  laughter.  "  Jes' 
look  at  it !  She's  tuck  off  'er  bunnit  so  't  we  can  see  it 
better.  Oh,  ye  dear,  sweet  thing  !  Lend  me  yer  ear  for 
a  palm-leaf  fan  !  " 


204  W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

The  frown  deepened  between  Maria's  brows. 

"  If  I  had  your  face  I  wouldn't  be  afeerd  o'  the  biggest 
bull-dog  't  ever  walked  bow-legged/'  she  said  sullenly. 

A  roar  of  merriment  rose  from  the  crowd. 

"Git  there,  gals  !  "  shouted  one. 

"Give  it  to  'er  !  "  yelled  another. 

Then  arose  a  Babel  of  such  cries  as  : 

"  Fire  a  rock  at  'er !  " 

"She's  a  hull  house  'n'  lot,  she  is  !  " 

"Hooray  fer  Pugsley's  Mariar  !  " 

"  Hooray  fer  ole  Sammy  !  " 

"Sammy  's  the  lad  't  can  spin  things ! " 

"Bust  the  nose  o'  'er  !  " 

"Slap  the  jaws  off  'm  'er  !  " 

"Oh,  chop  on  yellin'  'n'  let  's  hear !  " 

"  Hell  ain't  fur  off  'm  Sammy  !  " 

"  Hooray  !     Hooray  !  " 

These  indiscriminate  cries  which  coupled  her  name  with 
that  of  a  notorious  woman  of  the  camp,  enraged  Maria. 
But  she  had  resolved  not  to  begin  the  conflict.  Presently 
old  Sammy  waved  her  great  arm  for  silence  and  the  cries 
gradually  subsided. 

"I'll  larn  ye  to  laff  at  me/'  she  resumed,  "I'll  larn  ye 
what  manners  is,  I'll  read  the  riot  act  to  ye  !  I  tell  ye, 
ladies  'n'  gentlemen,  she  cried,  raising  her  fist  and  speak 
ing  with  an  air  of  solemn  conviction,  "a  wooman  't 's 
up  to  the  tricks  o'.this  'ere  'tin, — her  name  is  mud!  That's 
what  't  is,  mud  !  she'd  steal  acorns  from  a  blind  hog. 
She'd — Lor',  they  ain't  nothin'  a  critter  like  that  wouldn't 
do.  Humph  !  ye're  a  purty  'un,  ain't  ye?."  she  continued, 
recurring  to  Maria's  looks,  which  seemed  to  trouble  her 
more  than  anything  else. 

"  If  I  looked  like  you"  cried  Maria,  "  I'd  want  a  salary 
to  stay  with  myself,  /would." 

Renewed  cries  of  k  'Go  it ! '"  and  "  Hooray  !  "  Maria  saw 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  205 

Samantha's  husband  among  the  rest,  his  little  puckered 
persimmon  mouth  twisted  in  wild  laughter.  Maud  Eliza 
was  tittering  near  a  young  man.  The  sight  made  her  sick 
but  she  had  no  thought  of  retreat. 

Thus  far  the  contest  of  words  had  been  decidedly  in 
Maria's  favor.  She  had  spoken  less  than  her  adversary 
but  more  to  the  point.  This  was  the  kind  of  oratory 
which  Havilah  appreciated.  Samantha  realized  her  failure, 
but  still  entertained  no  thought  of  yielding  to  another  her 
long-acknowledged  supremacy  of  tongue. 

"Ain't  she  a  hard  lookin'  outfit?  "cried  the  giantess, 
reverting  to  her  favorite  theme.  "She's  got  it  into  that 
sweet  purty  head  o'  her'n  't  she  can  come  aroun'  'ere 
puttin'  on  doy's  much  's  she  likes  with  'er  airs  'n'  things. 
But  she  '11  find  she's  got  to  side-track  that.  I'll  show  'er 
who's  who  !  When  I  git  through  with  'er  they  won't  be's 
much  left  o'  er  's  soup  on  ice  !  Nobody  ever  seen  me  mak- 
in'  fun  o'  a  lady  as  is  mindin'  'er  own  bizness.  If  I  done 
sech  a  thing  I'd  'spect  to  be  thumped  for  it  so.undly.  But 
I  never  'd  lower  myself." 

"It's  ruther  disheartenin'  to  notice  thedifrence  atween 
some  folks  V  their  idees  o'  themselves,"  remarked  Maria. 

"  'N'  so  ye're  goin'  to  git  thumped,"  declared  Samantha, 
rolling  up  her  sleeves  and  preparing  for  battle.  "'N'  I'm 
the  lad  't  's  goin'  to  do  it.  We've  had  'nough  o'  yer  blab- 
bin'  'n'  sass,  'n'  now  we'll  try  suthin'  else.  Ye've  insulted 
the  wrong  un  this  time,  ye  flannel-mouthed  jade !  I'm 
a  goin  to  smash  ye  finer  'n'  powder." 

Maria  saw  that  the  time  was  come.  She  turned  white, 
but  not  with  fear.  The  giantess  drew  back  a  few  steps, 
flourishing  her  arms  and  cursing.  Then,  pushing  her  hair 
back  from  her  eyes,  she  squared  herself  in  pugilistic  fash 
ion  and  made  a  frantic  lunge  at  her  victim.  Maria,  how 
ever,  had  kept  her  eyes  on  her  opponent  and  exactly  at 
the  right  moment  s-tepped  aside,  letting  the  unwieldy  mon- 


206  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

ster  roll  past  into  the  crowd  which  parted  before  her  as 
before  an  elephant.  Panting  with  rage  at  the  failure  of  hei 
first  attempt  and  at  the  screams  of  merriment  from  the 
bystanders,  the  woman  plunged  toward  Maria  again. 

"The  Lord  hates  a  coward  !  "  she  screeched  beside  her 
self  with  fury.  "  Lemme  git  at  the  hussey — I'll  tear  'er 
liver,  I'll  chew  'er  heart !  " 

Maria  had  dropped  her  bonnet,  and  was  standing  with 
set  teeth  and  tightly-clenched  hands.  Her  blood  was  up, 
she  could  have  fought  the  whole  crowd.  Anger  is  the 
pathmaker  of  murder,  and  murder  was  in  Maria's  heart 
at  that  moment.  Her  fingers  tingled  with  a  mad  longing 
to  clutch  and  tear  something  that  could  bleed.  Samantha 
was  not  more  than  three  feet  away,  leaning  forward  and 
screaming,  her  venomous  face  contorted,  her  rat-like  teeth 
protruding,  her  hands  stretched  out  with  a  horrid,  grasping 
movement.  Maria  felt  the  answering  fury  of  a  fiend  in 
herself  but  still  waited.  Suddenly  she  was  conscious  of 
being  pushed  roughly  aside.  She  turned  to  grapple  with 
this  new  assailant,  but,  as  her  eyes  fell  upon  his  face, 
her  hands  dropped  helplessly  at  her  side  and  her  white 
lips  tittered  a  feeble  cry.  The  man  had  stepped  in  between 
her  and  her  antagonist,  and  with  an  outstretched  hand 
thrust  the  giantess  back.  Maria  looked  at  him  only  once. 
It  was  Jim  Hulse.  Then  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands,  and  stood  quite  still. 

Samantha  was  still  cursing  and  swearing  and  daring  the 
whole  Pugsley  family  to  combat.  Something  touched 
Maria's  hand.  She  uncovered  her  face  and  looked  up  be 
wildered,  but  did  not  let  her  eyes  meet  Hulse's.  He  was 
holding  her  bonnet  toward  her. 

"Take  it,  and  go  home,"  he  said,  imperatively. 

She  took  the  bonnet,  even  while  she  inwardly  rebelled. 

"Go  home,"  he  repeated,  seeing  that  she  did  not  move. 

She  fumbled  with  her  bonnet  sullenly. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  207 

"  I  reckin  I  know  'nough  to  go  home  when  I  git  ready," 
she  muttered,  keeping  her  eyes  on  her  hands. 

She  could  not  see  his  face  but  she  felt  the  fire  that  leaped 
into  his  eyes.  It  was  as  if  a  flash  of  lightning  had  cleft 
the  air  close  to  her  face. 

"  For  shame  !  "  he  cried,  taking  a  step  toward  her.  "  Go 
home  at  once." 

She  turned  away  without  another  word.  He  had  con 
quered  where  old  Sammy  would  have  failed. 

A  yell  of  disappointment  rose  from  the  crowd. 

"  Shame,  shame  !  "  cried  several  voices. 

"Oh,  let  'em  go  it,  Hulse  !  " 

"  This  is  a  free  country,  Hulse.     Let  'em  fight !  " 

"Come  back,  Maria,  'n'  have  it  out,  ye  can  lick  'er,  I 
bet !  " 

Maria  neither  turned  nor  noticed.  She  slunk  home  as 
if  she  had  been  stripped  and  beaten  in  public!  So  this 
was  the  pass  to  which  her  conceptions  of  the  necessity 
and  dignity  of  self-defense  had  brought  her  ;  this  the  re 
sult  of  her  life-long  learning  in  the  school  of  example  which 
had  instructed  her  to  champion  her  cause  like  a  man, 
this  the  end  of  all  her  recent  good  resolutions.  Hulse  had 
found  her  fighting  on  the  street  and  had  sent  her  home  like 
a  whipped  child.  How  she  hated  him  for  it — how  she 
hated  herself ! 

"  I  wish  I  was  dead,  I  do  !  "  she  cried  with  white  lips, 
when  she  found  herself  alone  under  the  cottonwoods  near, 
home.  "Why  can't  he  mind  his  own  bizness  'n'  lemme 
be  ? "  To  appear  in  a  street  fight  was  infinitely  worse  than 
to  show  herself  in  a  soiled  gown  with  shoes  down  at  heel 
or  to  berate  him  from  her  own  doorway.  ' '  How  he  must 
hate  me,  'n'  how  I  hate  the  very  thought  o'  him  !  I  wish't 
I'd  a-died  afore  I  ever  set  eyes  on  his  face  ;  I  do,  I  do  !  " 

By  what  power,  by  what  right  did  that  man  rule  her  ? 
She  loved  freedom  and  independence,  but  by  no  effort  of 


208  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

self-assertion  could  she  believe  herself  wholly  out  of  bond 
age  as  before  she  met  him.  It  was  an  entanglement  of 
horoscopes  which  she  could  not  comprehend,  but  which 
made  her  restive  under  the  decrees  of  inexorable  fate. 

Hulse  watched  her  retreating  figure  with  just  the 
shadow  of  a  smile.  The  crowd  was  still  angry  at  his 
interference,  and  frequent  curses  were  mingled  with  his 
name. 

"  The  devil's  in  Jim  Hulse  bigger  'n  a  grizzly,"  shouted 
someone  whom  he  could  not  see. 

The  smile  on  Hulse's  lips  deepened. 

"The  devil  is  whatever  we  don't  approve  of  in  other 
people,"  he  said,  and  walked  away. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  209 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"I'vE  learned  a  thing  or  two  since  I  come  to  Havilah," 
said  Maria,  three  weeks  later  as  she  and  Billy  sat  on 
their  favorite  log  by  the  river.  "I've  learned  't  fightin' 
ain't  in  a  wooman's  line.  That  fracas  with  ole  Sammy 
settled  the  bizness  fer  me" 

"  I  never  blamed  ye,"  said  Billy. 

"  Oh,  I  know,"  she  replied,  hastily.  "  T  wa'nt  that  I 
was  afeered  o'  yer  blamin'  me.  I  knowed  ye  wouldn't, 
at  the  time.  I  d'  know  jest  what's  come  over  me.  It's 
made  my  temper  quieter,  anyhow." 

"I've  noticed  ye've  been  ruther  soberer  since  then.'' 

"Yes,  it  sobered  me  up  a  heap,  that  row  did.  I  d' 
know  why.  I  wouldn't  fight  with  nobody  now,  'less  'twas 
with  dad  fer  'busin'  ma,  'n'  I  don't  reckon  I'd  half  enjoy' 
that.  Tears  like  suthin'  inside  o'  me  'd  been  a-fightin' 
me  lately  'n'  had  come  out  on  top,  'n'  I'd  made  friends 
with  it  'n'  felt  better.  I  ain't  what  I  used  to  be.  It's 
somehow  like  I'd  been  a  cryin'  'n'  had  needed  it  fer  a 
long  time  'thout  knowin'  it.  '  Taint  like  what  I  felt  when 
I  used  to  be  laffin'  so  much,  but  it's  better.  It's  like  I'd 
growed  big  in  my  ideas — I  d'  know  what  it  is  !  "  She 
shrugged  her  shoulders  impatiently  at  the  failure  to  an 
alyze  her  feelings. 

"Lor',  I  don't  see  nothin'  to  feel  bad  about,"  said 
Billy.  "Ye  ain't  done  nothin'  wrong.  Ye  ain't  got 
nothin'  to  feel  sorry  fer. " 

"Oh,  I  ain't  sorry  fer  the  change  in  me.  That's  jes' 
what  I  mean.  I  ain't  sorry,  'n'  yet  I  am.  Anyways,  I 
feel,  better — like  I'd  got  suthin'  I'd  been  a  needin'  fer  a 

14 


2io  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

long  time.  'N'  I'll  never  fight  agin  'n'  make  a  show  o' 
myself,  never !  I  reckon  that  may  be  what  makes  me 
so  much  more  comf  table.  I  won't  be  on  the  lookout  fcr 
a  chance  to  fight  after  this.  Only  I'm  sorry  I  didn't  make 
up  my  mind  to  it  sooner. " 

"I  allus  admired  a  gal  't  could  take  care  o'  herself  like 
a  man,"  said  Billy.  "  A  wooman  orter  be  able  to  do  it, 
out  'ere.  Sometimes  she  has  to." 

"I  didn't  have  to,  that  time,"  replied  Maria,  with  a 
shake  of  her  head.  "I  could  a-got  aroun'  it  somehow 
if  I'd  a-minded  to.  'T  was  all  my  fault,  every  bit. " 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Ye're 's  solemn  's  a  judge,"  he  said.  "I  hope  ye 
ain't  a-goin'  to  cultivate  sorrer  jes  for  a  little  thing  like 
that.  Lor',  what's  life  fer  if 't  ain't  fer  a  feller  to  work  it 
fer  all  they  is  in  it  ?  A  sigh  gits  a  sigh  fer  answer,  a  laff 
gitsalaff." 

"I  know — I  know,"  murmured  Maria,  still  shaking  her 
head.  "  But,  they  maybe  other  things  'sides  laffin' 'n' 
sighin'.  I've  'mos'  made  up  my  mind  't  life's  a  hard 
thing  to  learn  'bout,  Billy. '? 

"  Ole  Sammy's  never  tackled  ye  sence  then,  has  she?" 
asked  Billy  after  a  while. 

"Oh,  no.  'N'  I've  met  'er  lots  o'  times,  face  to  face. 
She  never  looks  towards  me  nor  says  a  word." 

"I  reckon  ye  showed  'er  ye  wa'n't  afeerd  o'  'er," 
chuckled  Billy. 

"I  ain't  sure  'twas  wuth  while.  She  might  insult  me 
all  she  wanted  to  now,  'n'  I'd  never  notice  'er.  'N'  I'd 
run  afore  I'd  fight. " 

"Why?"  asked  Billy. 

But  she  did  not  answer.  Her  eyes  were  fastened 
meditatively  upon  the  river,  and  she  seemed  to  be  think 
ing  in  unison  with  the  sound  of  it. 

"The  leaves  is  all  out,"  she  said  presently.      "Did  ye 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  2 1 1 

ever  notice  what  beautiful  lights  'n'  shadders  they  is, 
lookin'  up  in  the  cottonwoods  when  the  sun  shines  like 
this? — all  shades  from  gold  to  black.  I  like  to  watch 
'em,  they  change  so." 

Her  eyes  wandered  dreamily  from  one  object  to  an 
other.  Around  and  above  her  the  varnished  leaves  of  the 
cottonwoods  flashed  in  the  sun,  casting  shadow-leaves 
upon  the  grass.  On  the  farther  edge  of  the  valley  the 
looming  mountains  rose  white  as  quartz  ;  and  the  river 
filled  the  world  with  the  strong,  voluminous  sound  of 
rushing  water. 

Billy  sat  with  a  serene,  contented  smile,  as  if  pleasant 
thoughts  filled  the  air.  Familiarity  had  only  deepened 
his  love  for  Maria  and  confirmed  his  resolution  to  deserve 
her.  He  would  win  her  at  last — he  was  sure  of  it.  She 
seemed  to  him  no  longer  a  miracle,  but  a  sweet  human 
wonder  which  he  could  comprehend,  at  least  in  part.  She 
had  been  very  kind  to  him  of  late — ever  since  that  night 
when  she  had  told  him  that  he  must  wait  for  her  answer. 
He  was  content  to  wait  as  long  as  there  was  hope  for 
him.  He  would  wait  forever  in  the  assurance  that  she 
might  be  his  at  last. 

As  they  sat  thus  in  silence,  the  sound  of  a  human  voice 
broke  in  on  the  deep  tones  of  the  river.  Two  men  were 
passing  along  the  path  near  the  bank.  Presently  their 
words  became  audible.  v  . 

"  I  don't  reckon  they  'mount  to  much,"  said  a  gossip 
ing  male  voice  which  Maria  had  never  heard  before. 
"  Ole  Pugsley  hisself  's  a  ragged  lot,  anyhow.  I've  heerd 
how  he  'spects  to  do  suthin'  with  that  oldes'  darter  o' 
his'n, — he  told  it  hisself  down  to  Boosey's  Place, — 'spects 
to  marry  'er  to  young  Bling, — ye  know  Bling,  o'  the 
Shootin'  Star  claim  that  promises  so  big.  I  d'  know  how 
the  match  '11  come  out.  She  's  a  fine-lookm'  gal  'nough. 


212  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

'N'  I  know  myself  he  s'ports  the  hull  fam'ly — he's  bought 
all  their  grub  ever  sence  they  struck  the  country." 

"Indeed?"  responded  a  languid  voice  which  made 
Maria  start  and  turn  rigid — the  voice  of  Jim  Hulse. 

•''They're  a  lazy  lot  of  cattle  altogether,"  continued 
the  garrulous  stranger.  "The  ole  man  won't  work,  it  's 
nothin'  but  laziness  ails  the  ole  wooman,  'n'  the  gals  is 
chips  o'  the  ole  block,  both  o'  'em.  Them  gals  should  go 
to  work  if  they  was  mine.  Now,  don't  ye  reckon  they 
orter,  yerself,  Hulse  ?  " 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  replied  the  indifferent  voice  again. 
And  the  subsequent  conversation  of  the  two  men  was  lost 
in  the  noise  of  the  -river. 

Maria  sprang  to  her  feet  and  stooped  to  get  a  better 
view  of  the  retreating  figures  among  the  cotton  woods. 
Her  lips  were  parted  and  her  breath  came'quick,  as  if  she 
had  been  frightened.  Billy  had  risen  too,  and  was  stand 
ing  at  her  side  with  angry,  blazing  eyes. 

"Who  is  that  man  with — him/*"  she  asked  in  a  hard, 
tense  voice. 

"With  Hulse,  d'  ye  mean?"  Billy's  voice  was  tremulous 
with  rage. 

Maria  nodded. 

"  They  call  'im  Cowhide  Sam.  Let  go  o'  my  arm  till  I 
thrash  the  life  out  o'  him " 

He  moved  away  from  her  but  she  followed,  holding 
tightly  to  his  arm. 

"  No  !  "  she  cried  in  a  tone  which  made  him  at  once 
obedient.  "  I  don't  want  no  more  fights,  Billy.  Let  'im 
go.  How  d?  ye  reckon  he  found  out  'bout ' 

"I  can't  tell,"  he  replied,  distressed  and  angry.  "I 
swear  to  God,  Mariar,  I  never  told  a  livin'  hein' — never 
hinted  at  it " 

"  I  know  ye  didn't/'  she  said.  "  Mebbe  he  inquired  to 
the  grocery.  They's  plenty  o'  people  't  feel  out  o'  place 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH,  2 1 3 

'less  they're  nosin'  into  other  folks'  bizness."  She  smoothed 
back  her  hair  nervously.    "  It  don't  matter,"  she  added. 

"That  dirty  cuss  1"  cried  Billy,  flying  into  another 
rage.  "To  go  a  pryin'  aroun'  like  that!  I  never  said 
a  word  to  a  livin'  soul  to  make  'em  think  it.  He  must  a 
gone  to  the  grocery.  The  sneak  !  I'll  fix  'im  yit — see  if 
I  don  t !  " 

"  No,  Billy,  don't  ye  do  that.  Don't  ye  see  it  'ud  only 
make  things  wuss  ?  Everybody  'd  be  talkin',  V  they's 
been  'nough  talk  sence  that  row  with  ole  Sammy.  I  don't 
want  no  more  fightin'.  Promise  me  ye  won't  tetch  'im 
nor  make  a  fuss.  He  was  only  repeatin'  what  he'd  got  a 
holt  of  som'ers.  Promise  ye  won't  tetch  'im  Billy." 

"  Oh,  well,  if  that 's  what  ye  really  want — " 

"  I  reely  do.  All  I'm  sorry  'bout  is  't  he  told  Hulse.  I 
didn't  want  him  to  know  ye  was  a  s'portin'  us.  I've  allus 
hated  that  feller.  He  has  sech  a  look — I  d'  know  what 
it's  like.  All  I  know  is  't  I  can't  bear  the  sight  o^'  'im. 
'N'  we  mustn't  mind  what  dad  says  'bout  our  marryin'. 
That's  too  foolish.  'N'  now  I  reckon  I'll  go  home.  Tears 
like  I  feel  sort  o'  tired. " 

At  about  the  same  hour  of  the  same  day  Mr.  Ephraim 
Pugsley  sat  in  close  conclave  with  his  wife  and  Maud 
Eliza. 

"  Mariar  orter  git  married,"  the  head  of  the  family  was 
saying.  "  This  'ere  beatin'  aroun'  the  bush  don't  go.  She 
don't  seem  to  have  no  idee  o'  what  she  's  doin'.  She'll 
lose  Billy  yit — I  know  she  will.  No  sensible  feller  '11  stan' 
it.  'N'  then  what  '11  'come  o'  us,  I'd  like  to  know?  She 
orter  git  married  ;  it's  'er  dooty.  'N'  she  orter  do  it  to 
wunst." 

Ephraim  spat  a  generous  quantity  of  tobacco-juice  over 
the  window-sill  and  nodded  at  his  wife  and  daughter. 
Statements  like  these  were  easily  made,  but,  without 
Maria's  approval,  were  of  hardly  more  applicability  than 
a  group  of  scientific  facts  unsystematized 


214  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 


I've  been  tryhY  to  talk  that  into  'er  for  ever  so 
long,  '"  remarked  Maud  Eliza,  with  a  titter  of  habit  rather 
than  of  mirth. 

"The  Swipeses  all  got  husban's  young/'  quavered  Mrs. 
Pugsley,  using  her  favorite  analogy.  "'N'  I  don't  see 
why  Maria  shouldn't.  She's  a  Swipes  on  'er  mother's 
side." 

"Swipes  or  no  Swipes,  she  orter  marry/'  declared 
Ephraim.  "She's  old  'nough." 

"Old  'nough  !  "  screeched  Maud  Eliza,  flinging  "up 
both  hands  and  snorting.  "I  should  think  she  was  old 
'nough  !  >  She'd  orter  be  'shamed  o'  'erself  —  I'm  sure  I'd 
be  if  I  's  her.  Old  'nough  !  W'y  she's  gittin'  to  be  a 
reg'lar  ole  maid  ;  she's  more  'n  two  year  older  'n  I  be  !  I 
jes'  wish't  I  had  her  chance.  I'd  show  ye  a  thing  or  two 
't  'ud  make  yer  eyes  peel  !  " 

"  W'y,  you  'd  marry  to  wunst  'n'  no  monkeyin',"  said 
Ephi^im,  expectorating  again. 

"  Wouldn't  I  ?"  cried  Maud  Eliza,  with  a  horse  laugh. 

'  '  Sensible  gal  !  "  said  the  approving  father. 

"Maud    Elizy    was   allus  more  o'  a  Swipes  'n  what 

Mariar  was/'   put   in  Mrs.    Pugsley.    "  Mariar's  a  good 

'nough  gal  —  she's  allus  waited  on  me  the  best  she  knowed 

how,  though  sometimes  it  seems  like  she  might  a-done 

suthin'  more  for  my  side  when  it  was  achin'  fit  to  split  off  : 

but  she  ain't  got  no  style  ;    Maud  Elizy's  got  all  the  style 

o'  the  fam'ly.     She's   all   Swipes,    Mariar  don't  seem  to 

take  after  nobody  in  partic'lar." 

"  I  wish  't  she'd  take  after  Billy  Bling  in  partic'lar,"  said 
Ephraim. 

"So  d'l,"  said  Maud  Eliza,  "It's  time  she  was  out  o' 
the  way.  I'll  have  lots  better  chances  to  ketch  a  feller  when 
she's  gone.  All  the  men  go  a  gaddin'  after  her,  'n'  won't 
look  at  nobody  else  while  she's  aroun'.  'N'  she  jes'  don't 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  2 1 5 

see  'em  or  seem  to  know  what  they're  after.  It  makes 
me  mad  !  Why  can't  she  freeze  onto  Billy  V  be  done  with 
it,  I'd  like  to  know?  What  do  the  men  see  in  'er,  any 
how,  I  wonder?  She  ain't  lively, — she  don't  hardly  ever 
laff  now-days, — she's  a  heap  soberer  'n  what  she  used  to 
be.  I  can't  understan'  it,  for  that 's  what  the  men  likes, 
is  laffin'." 

"  That's  what  I've  allus  said,"  declared  Mrs.  Pugsley, 
raising  herself  on  her  elbow  and  looking  interested.  "I 
was  allus  laffin'  fit  to  kill  when  I  was  a  gal,  'n'  I  had  lots 
o'  beaux — hull  caboodles  o'  'em.  They  tagged  me  all 
over  the  kentry  'n'  wouldn't  gimme  no  peace  o'  my  life. 
I'm  proud  o'  ye,  Maud  Elizy.  Ye  take  after  the  Swipeses. 
Stick  to  yer  laffin'  if  ye  want  to  ketch  a  man." 

She  sank  back  on  her  blankets  with  an  air.  of  mingled 
dampness  and  maternal  pride. 

"Mariar's  idees  is  so  queer,"  continued  Mr.  Pugsley. 
"She  don't  seem  to  see  things  the  way  they  be.  She's 
too  hard-headed.  She  don't  think  o'  the  dooty  she  owes 
'er  family.  She  orter  think  o'  that." 

"  Course  she  orter,"  assented  Maud  Eliza. 

4<  Billy's  one  o'  the  fines'  fellers  in  this  'ere  hull  camp, 
too,  not  mentionin'  that  Shootin'  Star  claim  o'  his  which  is 
pannin'  out  wonderful.  Anybody  '11  tell  ye  that.  He's 
g-ood-natered  'n'  easy,  'n'  wouldn't  be  hard  on  his  wife's 
relations.  That's  where  the  beauty  o'  Billy  Bling  lays — 
he  wouldn't  be  hard  on  his  wife's  relations.  He'd  take 
care  o'  ;em  's  tender  's  if  they  was  little  kids,  or  suthin'  brit 
tle.  He'd  give  'em — or  leastways  the  male  part  o'  'em — 
a  little  salary  fer — fer  expenses.  That's  jes'  his  style.  I 
can't  see  why  Mariar  keeps  a-waitin'  'n'  a-waitin'.  It  can't 
be  she  keers  fer  no  other  feller/* 

Maud  Eliza  shook  her  head  emphatically. 

"  It  ain't  no  other  feller,  dad.      I  know  what  it  is — it's 


2 1 6  /AT  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

jest  to  spite   me.     I  am  completely  disgusted  with  Ma 
rian" 

"  '  N'  Billy's  prospects  is  'way-up.  He'll  be  one  o*  the 
richest  men  in  the  State  some  day.  When  things  reely  git 
agoin'  right,  his  claim  '11  turn  out  millions." 

"A  man  like  that  is  worthy  o'  a  Swipes/'  remarked 
Mrs.  Pugsley.  "' N'  I  hope  if  she  ketches  'im  she'll  live 
like  a  Swipes  'n'  not  get  to  be  a  low,  no  'count  critter 
't  nobody  takes  pride  in  'n'  ain't  got  nothin'  to  the  side  o 
'er  but  a  pain.  Maud  Elizy,  ye'll  have  to  git  me  a  new 
stickin'  plaster.  I  thort  I  could  do  'thout  it,  but  I'm 
afeerdl  can't." 

"I  like  success  wherever  I  find  it,"  continued  Eph- 
raim.  "It's  allus  safe  to  hitch  onto  a  successful  man; 
he's  sure  to  pull  ye  som'ers  'n'  land  ye  higher  'n  what  ye 
was  afore.  'N'  Billy's  a  successful  man,  'nr  I  love  'im  'n' 
admire  'im  'n'  I  want  'im  fer  a  son-in-law  ;  'n'  if  we  can 
only  fetch  Mariar  to  time,  our  troubles  '11  alFbe  over." 

But  appreciation  of  success  by  no  means  constitutes 
success.  The  river  Alpheus  reflected  many  an  Olympic 
victor  in  olden  times,  and  gained  never  a  bit  of  force  by 
so  doing. 

Mr.  Pugsley,  though  professing  to  be  greatly  disap 
pointed  at  his  prolonged  failure  to  get  work,  had  found 
life  at  Havilah  just  what  he  had  always  found  it  in  other 
places,  —  a  period  of  thriftless  idleness,  antecedent  to 
some  great  good  luck  which  was  sure  to  turn  up  in  a 
few  days.  He  seemed  to  have  regulated  his  conduct  ac 
cording  to  the  principles  of  a  triune  laziness  which  might 
be  formulated  as  follows  :  The  less  I  have  to  do,  the  less  I 
want  to  do  ;  the  more  I  have  to  do,  the  less  I  want  to 
do  ;  so  the  only  course  left  open  to  me  is  to  do  as  little  as 
I  can.  This  mode  of  existence  had  seemed  especially 
satisfactory  of  late,  inasmuch  as  Mr.  Pugsley's  amor 
phous  good  luck  seemed  likely  to  be  crystallized  very 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  2 1 7 

soon  in  Maria's  marriage,  and  meanwhile  Billy  provided 
the  family  with  everything  necessary,  showing  at  the 
same  time  a  beautiful  willingness  to  continue  his  gen 
erosity  indefinitely. 

To  Mr.  Pugsley's  grief  and  surprise  Maria  came  in  on 
this  particular  afternoon  and  declared  with  considerable 
emphasis  that  she  was  tired  of  living  on  charity  and  that 
not  another  mouthful  of  provision  bought  with  Billy's 
money  should  ever  enter  that  door  again. 

"  I've  only  put  up  with  it  so  long,"  she  declared,  "  be 
cause  I've  been  thinkin'  every  day  ye  might  git  suthin' 
to  do.  But  I  know  well  'nough  ye  don't  half  try.  If  ye 
ask  for  work  at  all,  ye  keep  prayin'  all  the  time  inside  o' 
ye  't  ye  won't  get  it.  Ye  jest  set  aroun'  the  saloons  from 
mornin'  till  night,  waitin'  to  git  treated,  V  soakin'  up  the 
whiskey  like  ye  was  a  sponge.  I  shan't  put  up  with  it 
no  longer.  Ye  can  go  to  work  or  starve  along  o'  the  rest 
o'  us — so  there  !  " 

"But  I  thought  it  was  understood — "  began  Ephrainv 
with  wide  open  eyes. 

"Ye  thort  it  was  understood  we  was  allus  a  goin'  travel- 
lin'  in  style  'cause  we  had  a  free  hoss  to  ride  ?  Oh  !  ye 
thort  that,  did  ye  ?  Well  !  ye'll  find  out  dif  rent.  We've 
had  enough  o'  this.  Billy's  offered  ye  work,  honest  'n 
honorable,  at  good  wages,  if  't  is  hard,  ye  can  dig  's  well 
V  the  next  'un,  if  ye've  a  mind  to — they  ain't  a  tougher 
ole  bone  nowheres  outside  o'  a  nigger's  skull  'n  what  you 
be,  all  over.  'N'  if  ye  won't  do  it,  w'y — "  Maria  nodded 
her  head  with  awful  meaning,  and  after  a  moment  added  : 

"  I  wish't  I  was  a  man  !  I'd  show  ye  what  a  man  can 
do.  I  wouldn't  sponge  ;  I'd  work  !  " 

Mr.  Pugsley  felt  that  the  time  for  prompt  action  had 
come.  He  edged  toward  the  door  with  two  definite  pur 
poses  in  view, — to  say  what  he  had  to  say  and  to  dodge 
the  consequences  by  precipitate  flight  if  necessary.  He 


2 1 8  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

had  never  wholly  forgotten  his  plan  of  utilizing  his  daugh 
ters'  labor  as  a  means  of  increasing  his  income,  but 
Billy's  generosity  had  thus  far  made  any  reference  to 
the  matter  unnecessary.  But  now  he  must  act.  Any 
thing,  even  Maria's  anger,  was  preferable  to  daily  labor 
with  pick  and  shovel,  and  Maria's  last  words  had  paved 
the  way  for  what  he  wanted  to  say.  If  she  liked  to  see 
people  work,  by  hokey  !  she  should  have  the  chance  to 
try  it  herself.  He  reached  the  open  doorway  and  stood 
there  a-tilt  on  one  leg,  watchful,  meditative  and  calculat 
ing. 

"  Wimmin  sometimes  works,"  he  said,  cautiously. 

' '  Well,  'n'  don't  I  work  ?"  cried  Maria,  hotly.  "  Who 
gits  yer  grub  'n'  washes  yer  dirty  duds  'n'  builds  the  fires, 
I'd  like  to  know  ?  If  ye  done  half  's  much  's  I  do,  we 
wouldn't  a-had  to  live  on  charity,  with  folks  talkin'  'bout 
it  in  the  streets  'n'  all  over  the  woods.  Dad,"  she  cried, 
with  a  sudden  vehement  earnestness,  "  what  is  they  here 
't  a  gal  can  do  to  earn  money  'n'  make  'erself  indepen-* 
dent  ?  I'll  work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  afore  I'll  let  this 
'ere  thing  go  on.  I  won't  be  dependent  on  nobody  !  " 
She  leaned  toward  him,  her  voice  piteous,  as  if  pleading 
for  help  from  danger. 

Ephraim  heaved  a  long,  relieved  sigh. 

"  That's  what  I  got  up  to  say  to  ye/'  he  said,  resuming 
his  seat  by  the  window.  "  'N'  now  't  ye're  ready  to  hear 
it,  I'll  tell  ye  what  I  think.  Ye're  a  strong  gal,  Mariar ; 
ye  admit  that  much  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  So's  Maud  Elizy." 

"  Yes." 

' '  Well!  Some  wimmin  takes  in  washin'  V  makes 
miners'  wages  at  it.  That's  what  I  had  to  say." 

He  crossed  his  legs  and  expectorated  over  the  window- 
sill. 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  2 1 9 

Maria  went  to  the  door  and  looked  out  toward  the  river. 
The  young  dancing  leaves  turned  the  sunbeams  from 
green  to  silver,  from  silver  to  green,  as  the  wind  passed, 
and  the  sound  of  the  river  was  like  the  voice  of  a  friend. 
Far  off  the  pines  lay  along  the  mountains  like  the  shadows 
of  resting  clouds.  Her  eyes  fastened  upon  them  me 
chanically.  What  her  thoughts  were  Ephraim  could  not 
guess.  It  was  enough  for  him  to  know  that  she  was  not 
angry. 

The  day  passed  as  usual.  Maria  spent  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon  at.  home,  and  when  Ephraim  returned  from 
Boosey's  in  the  semi-gloom  of  the  sweet  spring  evening, 
he  discovered,  tacked  to  the  side  of  the  house  under  the 
old  veranda,  a  strip  of  white  muslin,  bearing  in  ill-shaped, 
straggling  letters  the  words,  "Cmr  LONDRY,"  and  Maria 
herself  stood  in  the  doorway  smiling  as  he  had  never  seen 
her  smile  before,  but  with  something  in  her  look  that  for 
bade  him  to  speak  a  word.  She  had  gone  through  a 
struggle  with  her  pride  which  none  could  have  compre 
hended  but  herself. 

Ephraim  sat  down  at  table  in  silence  and  she  heaped 
his  plate  full ;  then,  without  a  word,  she  left  the  house, 
and  he  saw  her  disappear  among  the  shivering  cotton- 
woods  by  the  river. 


220  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

BILLY  did  not  come  down  to  camp  after  this  for  three 
whole  days.,  not  because  he  had  any  especial  reason  for 
staying  away,  but  it  seemed  good  to  look  forward  to 
meeting  Maria  after  a  long  absence — it  seemed  tremen 
dously  long  to  him — as  an  accumulated  joy  worthy  of 
much  self-denial,  as  a  sort  of  laying-up  of  spiritual 
treasures  on  earth  with  the  certainty  of  enjoying  them  in 
heaven.  There  was  something  very  pleasant  in  the  belief 
that  his  absence  would  make  her  think  of  him  and  wonder 
why  he  stayed  away. 

Sometimes  at  intervals  of  his  work  he  amused  himself 
by  wondering  if  his  thoughts,  going  down  to  her  in  the 
valley,  should  meet  hers  coming  up  to  him,  what  they 
would  say  to  each  other.  He  half  believed  that  they 
actually  had  met  thus  more  than  once,  that  he  had  often 
conversed  with  her,  though  out  of  sight  and  hearing.  It 
is  an  old  belief  with  lovers — perhaps  an  intuition — that 
love  bridges  space  and  time,  and  lets  thought  pass  freely 
across  the  chasm  of  the  universe. 

But  now,  whistling  gayly,  Billy  passed  under  the  cot- 
tonwoods  which  grew  around  the  Pugsley  cabin.  The 
branches  seemed  beckoning  him  to  play,  he  thought,  as 
when  he  was  a  boy.  Close  by  the  path  leading  from  the 
gate  to  the  veranda  a  little  fig-tree,  which  he  had  planted 
two  years  before,  lifted  its  clear  emerald  candelabra  to 
ward  him  as  he  passed,  and  a  weeping  willow  poured 
into  the  air  a  shower  of  pale  green  spray,  like  some 
marvelous  fountain  of  Arabian  romance.  And  the  roses, 
ah!  the  roses  that  hung  from  the  rude  old  porch,  how 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  2  2  I 

they  crowded  and  pushed  and  jostled  to  get  into  the 
sunshine,  and  how  the  bees,  rose-cradled,  worked  and 
hummed  and  fell  into  a  trance  of  delicious  slumber  when 
the  wind  rocked  them  just  right  ! 

"  Mariar  likes  seen  things,"  Billy  thought,  ascending 
the  steps  lightly.  "  How  queer  't  I  planted  the  roses  fer 
her  'thout  knowin'  it !  " 

Then  he  looked  up  and  saw  the  strip  of  white  muslin  on 
the  side  of  the  house.  He  stopped  short  and  stared  at  it 
several  moments  before  he  could  comprehend  its  full 
meaning. 

"  It's  that  Cowhide  Sam's  doin's,"  he  muttered.  "  It's 
what  she  heerd  him  say  to  Jim  Hulse  't 's  drove  her  to  it." 

He  cast  a  sweeping  glance  around  the  yard.  A  big 
washing  was  strung  out  on  the  lines  to  dry. 

"  She  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  that  sort  o'  bizness  if  I  can  help 
it,"  he  declared  to  himself  as  he  knocked  at  the  door. 
"  She's  too  good  fer  it.  Lord,  to  think  o'  the  money  I've 
got,  'n'  her  takin'  in  washin'?" 

Maria  herself  came  to  the  door,  smiling,  but  looking 
flushed  and  tired. 

"Come  in,  come  in  !  "  she  cried,  heartily.  "  Ye  better 
interduce  yerself,  seems  to  me,  ye're  sech  a  stranger. 
La  !  I  ain't  seen  ye  fer  a  coon's  age  !  Where  ye  been 
keepin'  yerself  ?  Take  a  seat  V  set  down." 

Her  greeting  was  unusually  cordial,  and  she  was  un- 
feignedlyglad  to  see  him.  She  held  out  her  hand  and  he 
took  it  gently,  almost  reverently,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed 
upon  her  face. 

"  I'd  ruther  not  come  in  this  afternoon,  if  ye  don't 
mind,"  he  said.  "  It's  so  pleasant  I'd  ruther  be  outside. 
Wouldn't  ye  like  to  put  on  yer  bunnit  'n'  go  fer  a  little 
walk?  We  can  take  it  slow,*'  he  added,  fearing  she 
might  say  she  was  too  tired,  "  'n  we  needn't  go  fur." 

She   went  for  her   bonnet  without   replying,    and   he 


222  /AT  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

thought  she  moved  wearily.  Presently  she  stood  beside 
him  again. 

"  Seems  like  I  never  seen  the  roses  so  thick,"  he  said, 
pulling  a  big  cluster  as  they  descended  the  veranda  steps. 
11  Ye  like  sech  things  don't  ye,  Mariar  ? " 

"Oh,  yes  !  "  was  the  quick  answer  : 

"Take  these,  then,"  said  he,  handing  her  the  flowers, 
"  'n'  stick  'em  under  yer  chin,  through  the  buttonhole 
there.  Ay,  that'  looks  fine  agin  the  white  skin  p'  yer 
throat !  We'd  better  walk  by  the  river  where  it's  level, 
hadn't  we  ? " 

"  We  allus  walk  by  the  river  !  I've  been  there  with  ye 
a  thousan'  times/' 

"'N'  I  hope  '11  go  therewith  me  a  thousan'  times  more  ! 
Would  ye  ruther  go  som'ers  else  ? " 

"Oh,  I  ain't  partic'lar— anywheres  '11  do." 

"I  thought  ye  looked  too  tired  to  go  up  towards  the 
foothills." 

"Oh,  I  ain't  tired/' she  answered.  "Leastways,  not  so 
very.  Come  to  think,  I'd  ruther  go  up  to  the  foothills. 
They's  jes'  time  for  a  good  climb  afore  sunset.  I've 
been  in  the  house  all  day.  I'd  like  to  git  up  high — where 
I  can  look  down  on  folks,"  she  added,  with  that  mirthless 
little  laugh  he  had  noticed  when  she  was  not  quite  her 
self. 

"I  don't  think  ye  orter,"  objected  Billy.  "Ye  look 
dead  tired  V  all  done  up.  I  wish  7t  ye'dgo  by  the  river." 

She  did  not  answer,  but  preceded  him  in  the  path  which 
led  toward  the  foothills. 

"Oh,  well,  all  right!"  he  said.  "But  mind,  ye  can't 
look  down  on  me  if  I  stay  along  o'  ye  !  " 

He  caught  up  with  her  and  walked  at  her  side  in  the 
heavy  grass.  He  wanted  to  be  where  he  could  look  into 
her  face  and  study  the  meaning  of  her  eyes  and  lips.  It 
is  as  natural  for  us  to  stand  close  to  those  who  nourish 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  223 

our  spiritual  needs  as  for  rushes  to  grow  by  the  water. 

Into  the  cool  dark  gulch  they  passed,  with  the  shadows 
-thick  around  them.  Here  where  the  sunbeams  pene 
trated  for  but  an  hour  or  two  during  the  day,  the  belated 
buds  of  the  willow  were  spreading  their  tiny  wings  as  if 
for  flight,  and  the  little  cottonwood  leaves  seemed  always 
reaching  toward  each  other  in  a  vain  endeavor  to  shake 
hands.  Wild  roses,  as  sweet  as  only  California  roses  in 
March  can  be,  had  pushed  back  their  green  calyxes  and 
were  peeping  out  into  the  late  spring  world. 

"Let  us  rest  here,"  said  Billy  as  they  reached  a  shelv 
ing  rock  beside  the  path.  "I  know  ye  mus' be  tired. 
Come,  set  down  here  beside  me.  W'y,  yer  face  is  flushed 
red  'n'  yer  breath  comes  short  !  What  a  brute  I  be,  not  to 
a-noticed  sooner  !  " 

She  did  not  resist  as  he  drew  her  down  upon  the  rock 
at  his  side. 

"  Mariar,"  he  began  at  once  with  great  earnestness,  "  I 
want  ye  to  tell  me  suthin' — suthin'  't  I  orter  know." 

' "Bout  myself?" 

"Yes,  'bout  yerself. " 

"Well,  what  is  it?  I  ain't  promised  to  answer,  ye 
know." 

He  rose  and  stood  before  her  so  that  she  could  not  hide 
her  face. 

"  I  want  to  know,  why  ye've  decided  all  o'  a  sudden  to 
work  like  this — to  take  in  washin'." 

She  laughed  somewhat  harshly. 

"  Oh,  is  that  all  ?  "  she  said. 

She  picked  up  a  loose  stone  and  sent  it  rolling  down 
the  path. 

"W'y,  I  reckon  ye  orter  be  able  to  answer  that  ques 
tion  fer  yerself,  Billy.  Ye  was  along  o'  me  'n'  heerd  what 
that  Cowhide  Sam  said, " 


224  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

She  loosened  another  stone  with  her  foot  and  watched 
it  bound  down  the  mountain  side. 

"  What  he  said  to  that  Hulse,"  she  added  after  a 
moment 

"But  it  don't  signify  't  ye're  goin'  to  work  yerself  to 
death  jes'  'cause  a  stranger  spoke  like  that ! "  cried 
Billy. 

"I  won't  work  myself*  to  death,"  was  her  response. 
"I  couldn't  if  I  tried.  Ye  don't  know  how  tough  I 
be." 

"But,  Mariar " 

She  turned  on  him  fiercely. 

"  D'ye  reckon  I'm  goin'  to  live  on  charity  'n'  have  folks 
lookin'  down  on  me  when  I'm  able  to  work  'n'  take  care  o' 
myself?  "  she  cried.  Then  in  a  suddenly  softened  tone, 
"I  know  ye  mean  all  right,  Billy,  'n'  ye  don't  look  at  it 
as  charity.  But  other  folks  does  'n'  so  do  I.  I  never 
reely  thought  cr  it  afore,  but  now — I  can't — I  can't  some 
how  bear  to  be  beholden  to  ye." 

"But,  Mariar,  yer  father's  plans " 

She  arose  with  a  movement  of  her  shoulders  as  if  cast 
ing  off  a  heavy  load. 

"  My  father  don't  plan  fer  me,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  I'm 
able  to  earn  'nough  fer  ma's  wants,  'n'  that's  the  main 
thing.  I  won't  take  charity  from  nobody." 

She  moved  on  up  the  mountain  side  and  he  was  obliged 
to  follow. 

"It's  only  a  little  ways  up  to  the  top  from  here,"  she 
said.  "  Let's  hurry  or  the  sun  '11  be  down." 

They  climbed  the  steep  ascent  to  the  summit  from 
which  the  valley  was  spread  out  below  them  like  a  map. 
Standing  together  in  silence,  they  looked  down  with  that 
sense  of  incorporeal  power  which,  when  gazing  from  a 
height,  merges  one's  thoughts  and  emotions  into  a  con- 
gciousness  of  regnant  force  and  spiritual  overlordship. 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


225 


They  seemed  alone  together  above  the  broken,  receding 
world.  Almost  unconsciously  Billy  took  her  hand  and 
she  yielded  it  to  him  without  noticing. 

Presently  she  drew  away  and  seated  herself  on  the  top 
most  rock. 

"I  am  cold/'  she  said  with  a  shiver. 

He  took  off  his  miner's  jacket  and  wrapped  it  tenderly 
around  her  shoulders. 

4 '  We'd  better  go  back, "  he  said. 

"Not  yit,"  she  answered.      "I  want  to  think." 

Her  eyes  wandered  away  to  the  far  mountains  which 
were  covered  with  snow  as  with  a  cloak  of  ermine.  Billy 
seated  himself  at  her  side,  devouring  the  look  of  her 
wrapt,  unconscious  face. 

"Mariar,"  said  he  at  last,  very  softly,  half  fearing  to 
break  in  upon  her  meditations. 

"Well?  "she  answered  without  taking  her  eyes  from  the 
horizon. 

"  Look  at  me,"  he  said. 

She  turned  her  eyes  toward  him  with  the  mechanical 
obedience  of  one  half-awakened  from  a  dream. 

"Well  ?."  she  repeated. 

He  moved  closer  to  her. 

"I  want  ye  to  give  up  this  wild  idee  o'  your'n,"  he 
said,  appealingly.  "What  bizness  'as  sech  a  gal  as  you 
be  to  work  like  a  common  woman  ? " 

She  smiled  bitterly. 

"I  should  think  ye  would  arfound  out  by  this  time  't 
I  ain't  no  better  'n  the  common  run.  They  was  a  time 
when  I  wouldn't  a-done  it  'n'  wouldn't  a-cared  who  bought 
the  vittles,  jes'  so  I  got  my  share.  But  it  ain't  like  that 
now.  Lord  !  what's  the  use  o'  longin'  to  go  idle  when 
everything  shows  \  we  was  made  to  work  ?  Life  without 
work  *s  like  a  steam-engine  with  the  fires  out  'n'  nothin' 
in  the  biler," 

15 


226  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

She  spoke  with  superficial  cheerfulness.  Billy  listened 
to  her  quietly  but  without  understanding  a  word. 

"  I  want  ye  to  let  me  keer  fer  ye,  allus,"  he  said,  when 
she  had  finished.  ''Ye  said  I  might  speak  to  ye  agin 
sometime,  'n'  'pears  like  I  can't  wait  no  longer.  I've  got 
money  'nough  fer  both  o'  us  'n'  to  spare.  'N'  I  love  ye 
honest  'n'  true.  They's  nothin'  I  wouldn't  do  to  make  ye 
happy;  no  sufferin'  I  wouldn't  go  through,  no  trouble  nor 
sickness  if  't  would  bring  a  good  to  ye ;  'n'  I  only  want 
the  chance  to  prove  my  words.  Will  ye  marry  me, 
Mariar  ?  " 

She  shrunk  away  from  him  a  little,  but  did  not  answer. 
Her  eyes  met  his,  almost  frightened. 

"  I  love  ye/'  he  repeated,  putting  his  arm  around  her 
beseechingly,  protectingly.  "  See  how  my  heart  beats 
ag'in'  ye — look  at  me — ye  mus'  know  it.  I'd  die  to  make 
ye  happy — I'd — "  he  paused  suddenly,  as  if  ashamed  of 
his  growing  earnestness.  "  I'd  treat  ye  as  the  wooman 
I  love  orter  be  treated, — as  the  best  'n'  loveliest  wooman 
in  the  world  orter  be  treated.  Ye  needn't  work  no  more, 
dear — never,  'n'  yer  folks  shall  be  comf table,  too.  I've 
got  'nough  fer  all  o'  us." 

She  let  her  head  rest  against  him  for  a  moment ;  now 
she  drew  away,  but  kept  her  eyes  fastened  upon  his  as  if 
reading  the  bared  tablets  of  his  soul. 

"  I  ain't  worthy  o'  ye,  Billy,"  she  cried  with  sudden 
vehemence,  turning  her  eyes  away.  He  was  about  to 
reassure  her  with  words  of  affectionate  protest  when  she 
pushed  him  away  from  her,  shivering.  Then  she  looked 
at  him  once  more. 

"  I  don't  want  ye  to  misunderstan'  me, "she cried,  with 
a  flash.  "  I'm  a  decent  wooman — a  honest  wooman  ;  it 
ain't  that.  In  that  way  I'm  good  'nough  fer  any  man — 
fer  any  man — d'ye  hear  ? "  Her  voice  rose  to  a  shrill  cry 
of  passionate  self-assertion,  and  then  she  shook  her  head 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  227 

as  if  recollecting  herself  and  went  on  in  a  milder  tone  : 
"  But  they's  other  things — they's  other  things.  I  don't 
want  to  talk  of  it  no  more,  now.  Wait  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  piteously. 

"  That's  what  ye  said  afore,"  he  returned.  "  Must  it 
allus  be  wait  ?  Must  I  allus " 

She  drew  his  coat  around  her  with  a  shiver. 

"  It's  cold  here,"  she  said.  "  I  felt  it  when  I  fust  come 
up.  'N'  I  think  I  am  tired,  after  all.  That  was  a  big 
washin'  of  ole  Dr.  Pilldabber's — the  biggest  I  ever  seen. 
They've  got  no  end  o'  brats,  them  Pilldabbers.  I  had 
fourteen  gingham  aperns.  But  he's  good  pay — he's  good 
pay.  Don't  talk  'bout  it  no  more  now,  Billy.  Wait — 
wait !  " 

In  silence  they  passed  down  the  mountain  side  together. 
The  sun  was  setting,  and  there  was  something  fiercely 
gorgeous  in  the  jumbled  colors  of  the  western  sky.  The 
trees  caught  flakes  of  red  light  on  their  branches  like 
pomegranate  blossoms,  and  down  in  the  valley  the  river 
flared  like  a  moving  conflagration. 

"  We  orter  a-gone  sooner/'  muttered  Maria,  still 
shivering. 


223  /AT  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

ONE  Sunday  afternoon  Jim  Hulse  sat  in  his  open  door 
way  gazing  out  absently  into  the  valley.  It  was  known 
of  him  that  his  opinions  were  strongly  atheistic,  and  yet 
he  had  been  heard  to  utter  Christ's  name  with  reverence, 
and  he  had  never  been  seen  at  work  on  Sunday.  A  book 
lay  on  his  knee  which  he  had  evidently  just  finished.  It 
was  Romola.  The  book  was  open  at  the  fly-leaf  on  which 
these  words  had  just  been  penciled  in  a  firm,  uncial  hand  : 

"  The  creative  faculty  is  the  nearest  approach  of  man 
to  God,  of  the  finite  to  the  Infinite.  For  the  mighty  few 
whom  we  call  geniuses  is  reserved  the  glorious  assurance 
that  they  have  had  some  share  in  moulding  the  beliefs 
and  actions  of  humanity  after  the  pattern  of  all  good.  It 
is  a  tremendous  thing  to  bring  beauty  out  of  ugliness, 
order  out  of  chaos,  and  earnestness  out  of  indifference." 

This  man  who,  like  Layamon  of  old,  "read  books," 
had  arranged  his  library  on  a  long  shelf  above  the  table 
where  the  familiar  gilt  titles  could  look  down  at  him  as  he 
sat  at  his  meals.  There  were  a  few  works  of  science, 
several  histories,  and  some  of  the  best  novels.  But  most 
of  the  volumes  were  poetry.  "  II  est  plus  aise*  de  con- 
noitre  Thomme  en  general  que  de  connoitre  un  homme 
en  particulier,"  says  La  Rochefoucauld  ;  and  we  may  be 
lieve  that  the  linking  together  of  impressions  which  had 
shaped  Jim  Hulse's  preference  for  the  Jiterature  of  senti 
ment,  had  been  as  mysterious  as  the  exceptional  events 
that  had  moulded  his  life  into  its  present  arbitrary  con 
figuration. 

Most  of  Hulse's  books  bore  an  inscription  in  the  same 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  229 

spirit  as  the  one  he  had  just  penciled  on  the  fly-leaf  of 
Romola.  It  was  his  habit  to  epitomize  his  impressions, 
to  sum  up  an  author,  and,  so  to  speak,  run  a  pin  through 
him  as  a  means  of  holding-  him  fast  in  his  collection  of 
psychological  specimens.  The  reader  may  not  be  unwill 
ing  to  examine  a  few  of  these  summaries. 

In  a  volume  of  society  verses  was  written  :  "  This  is 
one  of  the  many  poets  whose  voices  quaver  into  momen 
tary  prominence  and  then  are  heard  no  more." 

"  Rosetti,  in  his  admiration  for  the  beautiful,  not  only 
twines  the  frame  of  his  lyre  with  flowers,  but  the  strings 
also. " 

Swinburne  :   "  A  disciple  of  fever  and  ague." 

Tennyson's  In  Memoriam  :  "  A  pretty  shroud,  manu 
factured  by  one  who  has  original  ideas  in  funereal  tucks 
and  ruffles." 

Longfellow:  "The  land  of  song  is  the  broadest  of  all  ; 
its  boundaries  are  the  viewless  limits  of  the  human  heart. 
Poetry  is  life  not  as  it  is,  but  as  it  should  be. " 

Chatterton  :  "  Few  stars  touch  the  zenith.  Nay,  all 
stars  touch  the  zenith  of  some  place. " 

Chaucer:  "These  Songs  of  Eld  flow  refreshingly 
through  the  present  like  a  clear,  cold  stream  through  a 
barren  country.  Truly,  old  books  have  young  life  in 
them." 

Walt  Whitman  :  "  A  cow,  strayed  into  the  garden  of 
poesy  !  " 

"  Shakespeare  in  his  art  stands  like  these  mountains, 
eternal  and  alone." 

"  Shelley's  thoughts  fly  from  him  wild  and  free,  created 
as  God  created  the^birds  of  the  sky." 

On  a  novel  by  George  Sand  was  scribbled:  "Mar 
riage,  like  moonlight,  is  perfect  in  an  ideal  sense,  but 
faulty  for  the  practical  uses  of  life. " 

One  classical  work  was  visible — a  worn  copy  of  the 


230  2N  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Iliad  in  Greek,  in  which  was  written  :  "  Were  we  all 
gods  like  the  gods  of  old,  what  a  gloom  we  would  make 
of  life's  glory  !  "  And  underneath,  apparently  as  a  bitter 
afterthought,  "  One  need  be  but  a  common  mortal  to  do 
as  much  as  that." 

Hulse  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands  clasped 
behind  his  head  and  his  long  legs  extended.  Just  outside 
the  door  stood  a  wild  plum-tree  in  full  blossom  ;  the  sound 
of  bees  among  its  branches  rose  dreamily,  palpitatingly, 
like  genial  warmth  from  a  sunny  place.  Out  in  the  valley 
he  could  see  straying  cattle,  and  he  imagined  the  fra 
grance  their  heavy  feet  crushed  from  the  sweet  wild 
flowers.  A  few  tame  doves  circled  above  the  cabin  and 
settled  lightly  upon  the  roof  and  about  the  yard-like  en 
closure.  The  rivulet  flowed  past  with  a  quiet  hymn  for 
the  rare  bright  Sabbath. 

"  No  wonder  the  Romans  heard  spirit  voices  in  the 
sound  of  running  water,"  thought  Hulse. 

He  was  aroused  from  his  musings  by  the  appearance 
of  two  figures,  a  man  and  a  woman,  advancing  slowly 
through  the  rocky  opening  of  the  enclosure.  He  regarded 
them  with  displeasure  and  surprise.  They  were  Billy  and 
Maria.  The  girl  was  walking  a  little  behind  her  com 
panion,  looking  half  timidly,  half  defiantly  over  his 
shoulder.  Hulse's  face  darkened.  He  arose  and  stood 
in  the  doorway  as  if  to  bar  them  out. 

"  Well !  "  he  said,  when  they  had  stopped  quite  close 
to  him.  After  the  first  quick  glance  his  features  had  set 
tled  into  the  mask-like  indifference  which  was  so  strongly 
at  variance  with  the  phosphorescent  gleam  of  his  eyes. 

Billy  laughed. 

"  Why,  Hulse,"  he  said,  "ye  must  a-had  a  row  with 
them  books  o'  your'n  to  treat  callers  like  this.  This  'ere's 
Mariar.  Ye've  seen  'er  afore — wunst  at  her  own  house 
9n  wunst  on  the  street.  "  Ye  orter  'member." 


IN  THE    VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VI LA II.  23  t 

"  I  don't  remember,"  was  the  curt  answer. 

Billy's  eyes  opened  very  wide. 

"  W'y — y,"  he  began,  prolonging  his  vowel  the  better 
to  express  his  surprise,  "  don't  ye  'member — w'y,  ye  must 
'member, — how  ye  parted  her  'n'  ole  Sammy — how  she 
give  ye  Hail  Columby  from  the  porch — 

"  Ye  needn't  'mind  him  o'  meetin'  me/'  interrupted 
Maria.  "  I'm  sure  I  ain't  got  no  wish  to  'member, 
nuther." 

11  Ah,  that  was  Maria,  was  it  ?  "  asked  Hulse. 

"  Queer  't  ye  couldn't  'member,"  said  Billy. 

"  Very  queer,"  was  Hulse's  answer. 

"  Would  ye  mind  gittin'  out  o'  the  door  'n'  lettin'  the 
lady  set  down  ?"  inquired  Billy.  "We've  had  a  long 
walk  'n'  she's  tired.  It  was  my  doin's  't  she  stopped — she 
didn't  want  to  'n'  wouldn't  fer  a  long  time.  I  fetched  'er 
in  to  rest  a  minute  'n'  git  a  drink  afore  we  started  back  to 
Havilah." 

"  I  suppose  she  can  sit  down/'  said  Hulse,  ungra 
ciously.  He  left  the  door,  picked  up  the  volume  which 
he  had  laid  on  his  chair,  and  then  motioned  her  to  the  seat. 
11  I  don't  receive  callers,  especially  women.  You  know 
that,  Bling." 

"  I  know  't  yeVe  allus  acted  like  a  white  man  when 
I've  been  here  afore/'  said  Billy,  with  considerable  heat. 

Hulse  smiled — the  smile  which  no  one  liked. 

"  Pray  sit  down,  Miss — Miss  Maria,"  he  said,  pushing 
the  chair  toward  her. 

"  I  don't  want  to  set  down,"  said  Maria,  sullenly. 

11  Shall  we  go  on  'n'  I  come  back  'n'  settle  with  'im 
afterwards  ?  "  cried  Billy  in  open  anger. 

"  I  didn't  want  to  come,"  muttered  Maria.  "  'Twa'n't 
none  o'  my  doin's,  Mr.  Hulse.  I  want  ye  to  understan' 
that." 

"  I  beg  you,  Miss — Miss  Maria,  be  seated."     The  smile 


232  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

on  Hulse's  face  deepened  as  she  took  the  chair  reluctantly, 
keeping  her  face  lowered  from  his  while  her  hands  fumbled 
with  her  apron. 

She  was  rapidly  debating  with  herself  what  it  was  best 
to  do.  If  she  left  the  cabin  in  wrath,  Billy  would  be  sure 
to  avenge  the  discourtesy  which  had  driven  her  forth,  and 
blows,  if  not  bloodshed,  would  follow.  Good-natured  as 
he  was  he  would  hesitate  at  nothing  where  her  honor  was 
concerned.  She  reddened  with  vexation  and  wounded 
pride,  yet  was  driven  by  fear  to  acquiesce  in  a  hateful 
position.  But  quarrel  there  should  be  none  if  she  could 
avoid  it.  Better  suffer  for  a  little  while  the  pangs  of 
wounded  egotism  than  the  retributive  justice  of  knowing 
that  she  had  endangered  Billy's  life  or, — she  admitted  the 
fact  to  herself  with  resentful  anger, — the  life  of  this  man 
whose  assumption  of  sovereignty  was  destined  for  her 
abasement. 

"  So  your  name  is  Maria,"  Hulse  said,  after  a  silence 
which  had  lasted  longer,  she  thought,  than  she  could  bear. 

"Yes/''  she  replied,  faintly.  She  wondered  if  he  re 
alized  how  completely  she  felt  in  his  power. 

"An  ugly  name.  I've  always  hated  the  name  of 
Maria." 

She  flashed  a  quick  glance  at  him  as  if  to  deny  that  she 
cared  for  his  disapproval,  but  as  his  eyes  met  hers  she 
felt  her  lids  contracting  as  before  a  glaring  light ;  then 
she  said  with  strained  acquiescence  : 

"It  is  a  ugly  name.     I've  allus  hated  it  myself." 

There  was  another  trying  pause. 

"You  need  not  mind  the  ugliness  of  it,"  he  said  finally 
"  what's  in  a  name  ?  .You  may  not  be  aware  of  the  fact, 
but  the  Greeks  called  July  the  month  of  Hecatombaeon, 
and  yet  they  were  a  happy  people. " 

Maria  did  not  like  his  tone  and  found  herself  trying  to 
disentangle  his  meaning  from  his  manner  of  utterance, 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LA  IT.  233 

but  failed.  He  intended  to  sneer  at  her.  She  hoped  that 
Billy  noticed  nothing  but  the  bare  incomprehensible  words. 

"I  reckon  ye  git  that  way  o'  talkin'  out  o'  yer  books/' 
she  said,  weakly.  ''I  don't  reckon  I'd  like  yer  books," 
she  added,  almost  haughtily. 

Hulse  regarded  her  with  half-shut  eyes  through  which 
the  flame  gleamed. 

"You  are  honest,  at  any  rate,"  he  said,  slowly. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  but  sat  quite  still,  except  for  a 
slight  muscular  movement  of  her  arms  and  shoulders,  as 
if  she  were  straining  at  unseen  cords. 

"I  know  I  shouldn't  enjoy  yer  books  if  they  made  me 
like  jyou/"  She  would  not  yield  to  him.  Her  words 
were  independent  enough,  full  enough  of  self-assertion, 
but  there  was  a  false  ring  of  bravado  in  them  which  she 
recognized  helplessly. 

"  Ay,  you  are  honest,"  repeated  Hulse. 

"  And  you  are — "  she  began  with  a  desperate  deter 
mination  to  fling  off  the  nightmare  of  power  he  wielded 
over  her,  but  he  interrupted  her  with  an  adagio  drawl  : 

"Ah,  don't  try  to  tell  me  what  I  am.  You  don't  know 
— you  can't  have  the  least  idea.  I  may  be  guilty  of  a 
poem — did  you-  notice  my  library  ?  or  of  the  unconven 
tional  love  of  Don  Carlos  for  his  mother.  Who  can  tell  ? 
Or,  I  may  be  a  murderer,  since  murderers  are  as  plentiful 
in  California  as  Doctors  of  Divinity  in  New  England." 

Billy,  who  had  several  times  been  on  the  point  of  inter 
posing  and  had  been  as  often  waved  off  by  Maria,  came 
forward,  very  white  about  the  lips,  and  said  : 

"Hain't  ye  had  'nough  o'  his  jeerin'  yit  Mariar  ?  Let's 
go  now.  Come  !  I'll  settle  it  with  him  to-morrer." 

"I  don't  see  't  they's  anythingto  settle,"  she  muttered, 
still  plucking  at  her  apron. 

"Fll  settle  it  with  him  to-morrer,"  .was  Billy's  quiet 
iteration. 


234  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Maria  turned  from  him  to  Hulse. 

"I  wish  't  we  hadn't  come  here!"  she  cried,  with  a 
despairing  movement  of  her  hands  which  was  like  an 
appeal  for  help. 

In  the  strained  condition  of  affairs  she  forgot  for  the 
time  the  rebellious  serfdom  to  which  Hulse's  presence 
always  subjected  her,  and  thought  only  of  the  danger  of 
allowing  Billy  to  leave  the  place  in  anger.  The  urgent 
need  of  action-loosened  the  bonds  of  self-consciousness  and 
she  was  free  again.  Hulse's  mastery  over  her  was  but  a 
mastery  of  her  imagination ;  freed  from  this  she  could 
act  with  independence  in  the  line  of  duty.  She  could 
meet  him  as  an  equal  by  forgetting  herself.  A  quick  re 
solve  flashed  into  her  mind,  and  in  carrying  it  out  she 
arose  superior  to  his  extortionate  demands  upon  her  obe 
dience. 

"  Billy,"  she  cried,  suddenly  "  ye've  forgot  the  drink  o' 
water  we  came  for.  I'm  thirsty." 

Billy  took  down  a  tin  cup  which  hung  under  the  little 
square  window  and  went  out  to  the  brook. 

Maria  turned  to  Hulse  with  a  slight  lifting  of  her  head. 
A  change  in  her  face  expressed  the  subsidence  of  self- 
assertion,  but  her  glance  was  freighted  with  an  over 
mastering,  unselfish  fear. 

"I  don't  want  ye  'n'  Billy  to  fight, "she  said  in  a  pas 
sionate,  eager  tone.  "'N'  that's  what  it'll  come  to.  I 
know  it.  Don't  ye  see  how  mad  he  is  !  " 

"Does  he  want  to  fight?"  asked  Hulse,  with  his  eyes 
upon  her. 

"  He'll  insist  on  it — I  know  him  so  well !  ye  know  him 
yerself.  I  want  ye  to  make  it  right  with  him." 

"  Make  it  right  with  him  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Tell  him  ye  hain't  meant  nothin'  by  what  ye've 
said  'n'  done." 

"And  why  should  I  do  that  ? 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  235 

"  For  yer  own  sake." 

Hulse  smiled  curiously. 

"  He  cannot  harm  me,"  he  said. 

"  If  he  fights  with  ye  it  means — death  !  " 

"  Death?  "     Hulse's  tone  was  bitterly  sarcastic. 

"  Death  to  one  or  both  !  " 

"  He  cannot  harm  me,"  repeated  Hulse. 

' '  Fer  my  sake,  then  !  " 

"  How  will  our  quarreling  harm  you  ?" 

She  met  his  glance  quite  frankly. 

"Billy  loves  me,"  she  said,  simply. 

"And  you " 

"  I  care  more  fer  'im  'n  I  can  find  words  to  tell.  He's 
the  best,  the  only  friend  I've  got  in  all  the  world.  Ye 
know  how  such  quarrels  end  here.  '  N'  I  don't  want  no 
blood  spilt — his'n  nor  your'n."  She  shivered. 

Hulse  was  regarding  her  with  narrowed  eyes.  But 
Billy's  entrance  at  this  moment  put  an  end  to  further 
speech  on  either  side. 

"  Here's  the  water,  Mariar,"  said  Billy,  holding  the  cup 
toward  her. 

She  did  not  speak  nor  move  nor  take  her  eyes  from 
Hulse's  face.  She  did  not  seem  to  breathe. 

"See!"  repeated  Billy,  touching  her  hand  with  the 
cold  tin. 

"  I  don't  want  the  water  !  "  she  cried  roughly,  drawing 
away.  "  I  ain't  thirsty — now." 

«  W'y— "  began  Billy. 

'  •  I  don't  want  it,  I  say  !  "  she  repeated  in  a  high,  angry 
voice,  pushing  the  cup  from  her  and  spilling  its  contents 
on  the  floor.  "  I  don't  want  it  V  I  won't  have  it !  " 

Billy  shook  out  the  few  remaining  drops  and  hung  the 
cup  on  its  nail  under  the  window  ;  then  he  stood  with 
compressed  lips,  waiting  her  next  movement.  She  was 
still  looking  at  Hulse,  who  was  smiling  sarcastically. 


236  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Was  he  indifferent  to  her  anxiety,  or  was  he  enjoying  it  ? 

In  any  case,  she  could  endure  the  strain  of  his  presence 
no  longer.  She  turned  to  Billy  with  a  passionate  low  cry. 

"  Take  me  away  !  "  she  breathed,  grasping  his  arm 
and  drawing  him  toward  the  door. 

Billy  loosened  her  hand  very  gently  and  pushed  her 
a  little  to  one  side,  holding  her  hand  in  his. 

"  I'll  go  in  a  minute,''  he  said,  in  a  hard,  quiet  tone. 
"  But  fust  I  want  to  know  what  he's  been  sayin'  to  ye 
while  I  was  out  there  fer  the  water.  If  he's  said  any 
thing — " 

"  I  have  said  nothing  immodest,"  interrupted  Hulse, 
with  his  slow  smile. 

Again  Maria  tried  to  draw  Billy  toward  the  door,  and 
again  he  held  her  gently  back. 

"  Has  he  said  anything  to  ye,  Mariar,  't  ain't  straight 
Vfair?" 

"  No — no — nothing  on  my  word,  Billy.  Come  away  ! 
See,  it's  gittin'  late,  'n'  they's  a  long  walk  afore  us. 
Come  ! " 

Billy's  face  relaxed  somewhat. 

"  I  didn't  think  it  o'  Hulse  't  he'd  openly  insult  a  lady," 
he  said.'  "  But  they's  suthin'  wrong— they's  suthin' 
wrong.  I  can't  rightly  make  out  what  'tis  jes'  now,  but — 
I'll  come  back  'n'  settle  this  biz'ness  with  ye  to-morrer, 
Hulse.  I  don't'fight  in  the  presence  o'  ladies.'"' 

"  As  you  like  !  "  was  the  imperturbable  answer. 

' '  Let  us  go  !  "  pleaded  Maria. 

Billy  held  her  back  so  that  he  faced  Hulse  squarely. 
His  blue  eyes  flashed  like  steel. 

"  I  can't  make  out  the  meanin'  o'  most  o'  what  ye've 
said  to-day,  Hulse,  so  't  I  can't  bear  no  grudge  ag'in'  yet 
naked  words.  I  ain't  much  on  dictionary  slang,  nohow, 
but  I've  got  feelin's  the  same  as  you,  'n'  so  has  Mariar ; 
'n'  I  tell  ye  plainly  ye  need  a  lesson  in  manners.  The 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH.  237 

tone  o'  yer  voice  needs  cultivating  V  to-morrer  Til  come 
up  V  give  ye  a  lesson.     Come,  Mariar,  we'll  go  now." 

But  Hulse  stepped  in  between  them  and  the  door  so 
that  they  could  not  pass.  Maria  felt  as  if  an  iron  hand 
were  at  her  throat.  She  could  not  move  for  the  nightmare 
of  fear  that  benumbed  her.  Was  the  fight  to  take  place 
now,  in  her  presence  ? 

"  Bling,"  said  Hulse  in  his  colorless  tone,  "have  you 
any  reason  to  believe  that  I  am  a  coward  ? " 

"  No,"  replied  Billy  with  ready  generosity,  "  I  know 
ye're  a  brave  man.  I've  seen  ye  Venture  yer  life  where 
the  bravest  would  a-faltered.  I  'member  up  there  to  the 
American  Mine — " 

Hulse  lifted  his  hand  in  languid  protest. 

"  No  matter.  Do  you  believe  I  would  fail  to  meet  you 
to-morrow  through  fear  ? " 

"  No.     I  hain't  no  reason  to  think  so." 

"  And  yet  I  shall  not  meet  you." 

He  glanced  carelessly  toward  Maria,  who  was  leaning 
forward  as  if  to  catch  the  words  before  they  left  his  lips. 

"  Billy,"  said  Hulse,  holding  out  both  hands,  "  I  have 
no  wish  to  quarrel  with  you.  We  have  been  comrades 
here  a  long  time,  and  I  like  you  as  much  as  I  am  capable 
of  liking  any  man.  Why  should  it  not  continue  ?  If  my 
behavior  to-day  has  displeased  you  I  am  sorry,  and  I  can 
excuse  myself  only  by  asking  you  to  remember  what  you 
have  often  said  to  my  face — that  I  am  a  queer,  incalcu 
lable  man.  You  know  some  people  call  me  insane." 
'His  voice,  which  had  till  now  been  as  regular  and  mo 
notonous  as  if  repeating  a  mathematical  formula — Maria 
wondered  how  such  genuine  words  could  be  uttered  in 
such  an  indifferent  tone — became  charged  with  momen 
tary  feeling,  "  and  sometimes  I  half  believe  they  are 
right.  I  have  no  wish  to  quarrel  with  you,  Billy.  The 
fault  has  been  mine,  Let  us  be  friends," 


238  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

Billy  yielded  his  hands,  but  did  not  return  the  pressure 
of  the  other. 

"  The  offense  is  ag'in'  Mariar,"  he  said  in  a  softened 
tone.  "  I'll  let  her  speak  fer  me." 

There  was  a  mist  before  her  eyes  as  she  answered  in  a 
quick,  agitated  voice  : 

"Then  I  say,  by  all  means  be  friends."  And  she 
laughed  almost  hysterically. 

The  two  men  shook  hands  in  silence. 

"  And  now  you  are  at  liberty  to  finish  your  idyl  in  your 
own  good  time  and  way,"  said  Hulse.  "  And  since  we 
are  good  friends  again,  let  me  give  you  a  word  of  advice  : 
if  you  care  for  each  other — and  I  suppose  you  think  you 
do — don't  be  too  much  together.  You'll  find  that  absence 
exalts  more  than  merit.  Take  allopathic  doses  of  sep 
aration  ;  they  are  the  best  preventive  of  contempt !  " 

"  Come,"  said  Maria,  drawing  her  arm  through  Billy's, 
"let's  go  now."  Hulse  seemed  determined  to  be  derisive 
till  the  last,  and  she  feared  that  Billy's  half-appeased  i.e- 
sentment  might  be  roused  again.  She  felt  thankful  for  a 
great  deliverance  and  longed  to  hurry  away  lest  it  be 
withdrawn.  She  pulled  Billy  after  her  through  the  door, 
and  Hulse  followed  a  little  way  behind.  At  sight  of  him 
the  flock  of  doves  fell  like  masses  of  snow  from  the  roof 
to  his  feet.  Maria  looked  back  once  after  she  had  passed 
the  opening  in  the  rocks  which  led  to  the  cabin  and  saw 
that  the  birds  had  settled  upon  his  head  and  shoulders 
and  extended  arms.  He  was  holding  one  close  to  his 
face  and  smoothing  its  snowy  plumage  with  caressing 
fingers. 

"I  never  seen  Hulse  act  so  nasty  afore,"  muttered  Billy 
after  a  long  silence.  "  I  had  no  idee  a  human  critter 
could  put  sech  a  vile  sound  into  his  voice." 

"  But  it's  all  right  now,"  said  Maria,  eager  that  Billy 
should  feel  quite  satisfied. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  239 

"  Oh,  I  reckon  so.  I  'most  wish  it  wa'n't,  he  acted  so 
d — n  mean.  But  a  feller  can't  fight  after  the  way  he 
Apologized." 

"  O'  course  not." 

"  Well,  let  it  go.    I  wonder  what  could  a-upset  him  so  ? '' 

"Ye  told  me  wunst  't  he  hated  wimmin.  Mebbe  it  was 
the  sight  o'  me  't  done  it." 

Billy  gave  a  long  -whistle. 

"  That's  jest  it  !  "  he  cried,  slapping  his  thigh.  "D'ye 
know,  Mariar,  sometimes  I've  thought  't  mebbe  he  was 
disappointed  in  love  in  his  younger  days,  V  it  sort  o' 
soured  'im  ag'in'  the  sex.  I  swear,  it  looks  like  it,  don't 
it,  now  ? " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Maria  faintly. 

"Poor  feller,"  said  Billy,  compassionately.  "Poor 
feller  !  He  must  a-thought  a  heap  o'  her  to  let  it  drive 
'im  off  'ere  in  sech  a  upset  way.  'N'  what  a  queer  ring 
he  can  put  into  them  big  words  o'  his'n  !  I  can't  allus 
understan'  the  words,  but  the  meanin'  o'  his  voice  ain't 
good.  He  don't  talk  like  that  when  we're  alone ;  come 
to  think,  I  reckon  he  lets  me  do  most  o'  the  talkin'.  But 
suthin'  in  his  words  to-day  riled  me.  I  can  feel  it,  but  it's 
's  hard  to  put  my  finger  on  's  one  o'  them  'Frisco  fleas." 

Maria  laughed  nervously. 

"  We  mustn't  j edge  his  tone  too  ha'sh  when  we  can't 
make  out  the  words,"  she  said.  "  Mebbe  the  words 
meant  better  'n  the  voice  made  'em  seem." 

"  His  eyes  said  's  much  's  his  voice  did,"  continued 
Billy,  meditatively.  "  I  never  seen  sech  a  eye  in  a  man's 
head.  I  never  reely  noticed  till  to-day,  but  it's  like  the 
open  back-door  o'  hell." 

They  went  on  in  silence  for  some  time,  both  grave  and 
thoughtful.  Billy  did  not  try  to  talk  after  these  first  few 
words.  Even  the  utterance  of  these  had  been  an  effort, 
and  he  was  not  in  a  mood  to  exert  himself  further. 


240  IN1  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILA ff. 

The  evident  hollowness  of  Hulse's  unexpected,  undesired 
apology  caused  him  to  wonder  keenly  why  that  contra 
dictory  man  had  proffered  it.  Not  from  cowardice,  Billy 
was  sure,  for  it  had  often  been  said  of  Hulse  that  he 
seemed  careless  of  danger  and  eager  for  death. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  241 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

MR.  PUGSLEY  lighted  his  pipe  and  sat  down  by  the 
window  for  a  comfortable  smoke.  Things  were  going 
well  with  him  ;  he  was  getting  on  in  the  world  in  just 
the  manner  he  had  always  desired  to  get  on, — he  was 
doing  nothing,  and  there  seemed  no  necessity  for  him  to 
do  anything  in  all  the  infinity  of  time  that  was  to  come. 
The  laundry  business  had  proved  a  success.  He  had 
enough  to  eat, — boiled  chicken  was  an  event  of  almost 
daily  occurrence  in  the  Pugsley  family  in  these  days, — 
and  Maria  even  furnished  him  with  a  little  spending- 
money  besides, — enough  to  keep  himself  in  a  condition 
of  sunny  good-nature  about  the.  house.  Perhaps  Maria 
had  an  eye  to  the  latter  convenience  when  she  counted 
out  his  financial  allowance  every  morning ;  Ephraim  did 
not  know  nor  care.  The  only  fault  he  could  find  with 
Maria  was  that  thus  far  she  had  come  to  no  definite 
"  settlement "  with  Billy;  and  that  Billy  was  anxious  for 
a  speedy  and  favorable  answer  to  his  suit,  Ephraim  had 
assured  himself  by  personal  investigation. 

It  was  rumored  that  half  the  miners  in  and  about  the 
camp  of  Havilah  had  taken  to  wearing  white  shirts  for  the 
express  purpose  of  having  an  excuse  to  pay  a  weekly 
visit  to  the  Pugsley  cabin.  The  unencumbered  masculine 
element  in  the  community  declared  that  Maria's  ways 
were  "  fetchin' "  and  that  Maud  Eliza's  jokes  were  worth 
listening  to,  if  for  no  other  reason,  because  she  enjoyed 
them  so  much  herself.  Maria  was  satisfied  with  her  income, 
and  worked  ceaselessly,  day  and  night  ;  Maud  Eliza,  too, 
had  suddenly  become  more  serious,  and  had  settled  down 
to  business  with  a  feminine  adaptability  which  recognized 


242  IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

as  an  ultimate  aim  the  charms  of  hitherto  unattainable 
calico  gowns  with  exaggerated  ruffles  of  an  ideal  fulness. 
As  for  Mrs.  Pugsley,  she  partook  of  the  growing  pros 
perity  of  the  family.  She  looked  much  less  moist  than 
formerly,  though  her  partial  dryness,  it  must  be  confessed, 
seemed  too  superficial  to  resist  even  a  slight  relapse  of 
good  fortune.  To-day  she  lay  on  the  lounge, — Maria's 
first  money  had  been  invested  in  a  second-hand  lounge 
for  her  mother, — in  calm  contemplation  of  a  long-delayed 
elegance  which  she  felt  to  be  picturesque,  indeed,  though 
remotely  so  compared  with  the  magnificence  into  which 
it  might  have  developed  had  metamorphosis  set  in  earlier 
in  life,  before  she  had  ceased,  for  all  practical  purposes, 
to  be  longer  accounted  a  Swipes.  However,  there  was 
no  denying  that  it  was  something  like  a  lady  to  lie  on  the 
lounge  all  day  in  a  new  calico  gown  which  luxuriated  in 
a  flounce  a  half  yard  wide.  But  Mrs.  Pugsley's  great  pride 
and  glory  was  a  white  muslin  cap  with  a  frightened- 
looking  pink  bow  on  the  front,  which  she  had  insisted  on 
as  the  exact  counterpart  of  one  that  "  Ma  Swipes  "  always 
wore.  Mrs.  Pugsley's  supreme  longing  now  was  for  a 
spotted  collar  with  a  blue  stripe  around  it,  and  a  pair  of 
cardinal  stockings,  after  which  she  could  feel  that  the 
final  goal  of  her  life  had  been  attained,  and  that  nothing 
remained  for  her  but  to  go  on  contemplating  her  surprising 
elegance  until  the  time  when  she  should  be  gathered  to 
her  fathers. 

As  Maria  and  Maud  Eliza  stood  at  the  table  this  after 
noon  busily  ironing,  Mrs.  Pugsley  had  ample  time  and 
opportunity  to  view  her  own  gown  and  theirs  with  a 
comparative,  diagnostic  eye.  All  were  from  the  same 
piece  of  calico, — Maria  had  bought  a  whole  bolt  cheap 
because  a  yard  or  so  was  damaged, — but  Mrs.  Pugsley 
cherished  a  decided  preference  for  the  make  and  fit  of  her 
pwn.  Maria's  certainly  wrinkled  about  the  shoulders. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 


243 


and  Maud  Eliza's  was  so  tight  that  it  gaped  between  the 
buttons.  Mrs.  Pugsley's  eyes  being  in  front  of  her,  she 
could  form  no  conception  of  the  phenomenal  flatness  her 
own  garment  gave  to  her  back  when  she  occasionally 
stood  up  to  readjust  herself,  nor  could  she  perceive  that 
it  was  shorter  behind  than  before  and  was  very  scant  of 
gathers  in  the  back  and  very  full  of  them  on  the  hips. 
Had  her  training  been  of  the  sort  to  develop  a  power  of 
impersonal  generalization,  she  might  have  characterized 
the  toilets  of  all  three  as  finery  which  aspiring  poverty 
had  a  hand  in  making  ;  but  in  the  novel  consciousness  of 
new  clothes,  she  felt  no  interest  beyond  her  advance 
from  old  standards,  and  rested  calmly  in  the  belief  that 
her  suddenly  acquired  raiment  represented  the  ultimatum 
of  opulence  and  good  taste.  Mr.  Pugsley  himself  from 
his  seat  by  the  window  occasionally  glanced  toward  his 
family  with  a  proprietary  expression  of  approval,  and 
then  looked  away  thoughtfully,  imagining  a  glorious 
future  in  which  all  things — even  a  plug  hat  for  himself— 
seemed  possible  and  probable. 

"Well,  ole  woman,"  said  he,  cheerfully,  "this  is 
suthin'  like  livin',  now,  ain't  it  ?  Ye  V  both  the  gals 
dressed  up  to  the  Queen's  taste  'n'  enjoyin'  yerselves, 
V  me  a  settin'  'ere  a-smokin'  my  pipe  's  easy  's  pie ! 
This  is  bloomin',  this  is  !  I  ain't  no  objections  to  lettin' 
this  last  forever  !  " 

Mrs.  Pugsley's  secret  satisfaction  in  the  contemplation 
of  her  gown  faded  instantly.  Having  accustomed  herself 
to  the  belief  that  she  possessed  all  the  diseases  of  human 
ity,  an  insinuation  that  she  might  be  enjoying  herself 
roused  all  her  querulous  resentment  into  activity. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  quavered,  with  her  old  look  of  super 
ficial  patience.  "I'mperfeckly  well.  Who  's  heard  me 
complain  ?  /  'm  allus  well.  Why  don't  ye  set  me  to 
makin'  garden?  They  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  o'  me!" 


244  IN~  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

And  she  sighed,  wiping  away  an  imaginary  tear  on  her 
cap-string. 

"  They's  people  as  don't  know  they  feel  bad  'less  they 
hear  theirselves  howl,"  remarked  Ephraim.  "  Ye  orter 
feel  good  in  that  new  gownd  o'  your'n." 

11  I  do — I  do  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Pugsley,  with  hysterical 
sobs.  "  Don't  ye  see  how  cheerful  I  be — how  grateful  I 
be  ?  What  wooman  could  be  more  so  with  the  pains  a-run- 
nin'  through  'er  like  burnin'  fire  ?  Oh,  my  side  !  oh,  my 
4iver  !  " 

"  Lor',  dad,  let  'er  alone,"  said  Maria,  testing  the  heat 
of  her  flat-iron  with  her  moistened  finger.  "  She's  been 
feelin'  bad  s'  long 't  it's  got  to  be  a  habit  now.  Let  'er  be  !  " 

"  Even  my  darter  goes  back  on  me,"  whimpered  Mrs. 
Pugsley,  shaking  her  head  drearily.  "  I  stan'  alone  !  " 

"  Mebbe  if  she'd  take  to  drinkin',"  said  Maria,  in  a 
voice  which  Ephraim  thought  a  trifle  too  significant, 
"  she'd  be  cheerfuller.  Hadn't  ye  better  persuade  'er, 
dad  ? " 

Mrs.  Pugsley  seemed  to  consider  the  proposition  seri 
ously. 

"  Raw  whiskey  was  allus  too  hard  fer  my  neck,"  she 
complained,  feebly.  "  Tain't  no  use  to  try  to  keep  cheer 
ful  that  way.  I  never  could  stan'  it,  not  even  when  dad 
kep'  his  place  there  to  the  Bar,  'n'  I  was  a  gal  then,  too, 
with  a  reg'lar  Swipes  stummick  't  was  ekal  to  anything." 

"  I  ain't  been  drinkin'  heavy  lately,  Maria,"  said 
Ephraim.  "  Ye  talk  like  I'd  been  runnin'  over  my  'low- 
•  ance,  'n'  I  ain't,  not  wunst." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that,"  was  the  answer. 

"A. man  like  me "  began  Ephraim. 

Maria  laughed. 

"A  man  like  you/"  she  cried.  •  "Oh,  dad,  that's  too 
good.  The  Lord  was  only  jokin'  when  he  made^ye,  dad ; 
He  didn't  intend  ye  fer  a  man  1  " 


IN  THE   VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  24  5 

Maud  Eliza  slammed  her  flat-iron  down  on  the  table 
and  snorted. 

"A  man  like  me,"  proceeded  Ephraim,  choosing  to  dis 
regard  these  things,  "has  stren'th  o'  mind  'nough  to  keep 
in  bounds — allus  in  bounds.  They's  bounds  to  every 
thing,  'n'  I  allus  keep  inside  o'  'em,  my  dear.  That's  the 
kind  o'  hollyhock  /  be  !  " 

He  emptied  his  pipe  by  striking  the  inverted  bowl  sev 
eral  times  against  the  heel  of  his  boot ;  then  rilled  it  again 
with  whittlings  from  a  plug  of  chewing  tobacco  which  he 
always  carried  in  his  pocket. 

"  Mariar,"  he  said,  when  he  was  purring  comfortably 
again,  "  I  want  to  ask  ye  jes'  one  question.  D'ye  mind  ?  " 

"Oh,  ask  away,"  she  answered.  "  I  needn't  answer 
'less  I  like." 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,"  said  Ephraim,  in  the  tone 
of  one  who  is  willing  to  retract  his  words  if  they  are  not 
agreeable,  "  what  I  want  to  know  is,  what  be  ye  a-goin' 
to  do  with  Billy  Bling  ?  " 

"  What  be  I  a-goin'  to  do  with  'im  ?" 

Finding  that  his  question  was  not  resented  as  an  unpar 
donable  liberty,  the  head  of  the  family  went  on  with  more 
independence : 

"Them  was  my  words — what  be  ye  a-goin'  to  do  with 
Billy  Bling?  Be  ye  a-goin'  to  take  'im,  or  be  ye  a-goin' 
to  give  'im  the  shake  ?  Be  ye  a-goin'  to  let  'im  keep  on 
comin'  here  till  kingdom  come  without  gittin'  at  a  settle 
ment,  or  be  ye  a-goin'  to  marry  'im  'n'  settle  down  like  a 
gal  o'  sense  ?  " 

"  It's  his  house,  'n'  I  reckon  he  can  come  's  often  's  he 
wants  to.  /ain't  a-goin'  to  turn  'im  out." 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,"  said  Ephraim,  more  impres 
sively,  wheeling  himself  about  in  his  chair  and  facing  her, 
"  be  ye  a-goin'  to  marry  'im  or  no  ?  That's  what  I  want 
to  know." 


246  /AT  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

He  replaced  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  with  the  resolve  that, 
as  long  as  Maria  made  no  objection  to  his  taking  an  inter 
est  in  her  affairs,  he  would  continue  to  perform  his  duty 
as  a  father. 

Maria  was  silent. 

11  Billy's  a  fine  young  feller/'  continued  Ephraim,  tak 
ing  his  pipe  from  his  mouth  again  and  emphasizing  his 
words  by  repeatedly  dabbing  it  at  her.  "  'N'  he's  got  the 
rocks,  too.  They  ain't  no  better  prospecks  nowheres  in 
this  deestrick  'n  his'n.  Scripter  don't  advertise  no  better 
gold  fer  the  ancient  land  o'  Havilah  'n  what's  found  right 
on  Billy's  claim." 

"  Well !  "  said  Maria.  "  Whose  Bible  've  you  been 
s'prisin'  by  lookin'  into  it  ?  " 

"  Nobody's  !  "  cried  Ephraim,  triumphantly.  "I  heerd 
'bout  it  down  to  Boosey's.  Ye  see,  that's  the  sort  o'  thing 
we  talk  over,  down  there.  One  ole  feller  't  used  to  be  a 
parson  som'ers  back  in  the  States,  they  say,  was  talkin' 
'bout  Billy's  claim,  t'other  day,  'n'  them  was  his  words  : 
'  D — n  it !  '  says  he,  '  the  gold  off  'm  that  claim  beats  the 
gold  o'  Scriptural  Havilah  all  to  thunder !  '  Says  I,  '  I 
didn't  know  they  was  any  sech  thing  as  a  Havilah  in 
Scripter.'  '  Well,'  says  he,  'they  was,  'n'  the  Bible  says 
the  gold  o'  that  land  was  good.'  Them  was  his  very 
words.  'N'  now  ye  can  see  the  'vantage  o'  stayin'  aroun' 
'n'  hearin'  what's  goin'  on." 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  said  Maria.  "  Have  ye  got  any  more  o* 
them  air  flamin'  remarks  to  make  ?  " 

Here  Maud  Eliza  tittered  disagreeably. 

"  I  wish  't  ye  wouldn't  do  that,  Maud  Eliza,"  said 
Ephraim,  with  mild  persuasion.  "  It  sounds  like  a  ole 
hen  't's  scared." 

"  It's  the  chicken  we  had  fer  dinner,"  giggled  the  girl  in 
"explanation.      "I  et  so  much  o"t  I  can  hardly  keep  from 
cacklin'  all  the  time  !  " 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  247 

"  Seems  to  me  like  ye've  got  less  understan'in'  'n' 
usual/'  said  Ephraim,  displeased. 

"  Oh,  no,  I  hain't!"  declared  Maud  Eliza,  who  scin 
tillated  with  high  spirits  this  afternoon.  "  I've  got  the 
usual  'mount  o'  understan'in',  plus  one  corn." 

At  this  retort  everybody  laughed  except  Mrs.  Pugsley, 
who  groaned. 

"  It  'ud  be  a  good  thing  fer  all  o'  us,"  continued  Eph 
raim  after  their  mirth  had  subsided,  "if  ye  could  make 
up  yer  mind  in  favor  o'  Billy.  He'd  make  ye  a  good 
husban' " 

"  When  I  git  ready  fer  the  great  '  I  Am,'  I'll  prob'ly  find 
'im  'thout  any  help  from  you,"  interrupted  Maria,  but  not 
angrily.  And  Ephraim  ventured  to  proceed  : 

"  'N'  he  wouldn't  be  mean  towards  yer  ma  'n'  the  rest 
o'  us.  He'd  be  willin'  to  pervide  fer  us  han'sim " 

"  Ye  git  'nough  to  eat  'n'  drink,  don't  ye  ? "  asked  Maria, 
with  a  little  impatience. 

"  Oh,  I  ain't  no  call  to  complain  o'  that,"  answered 
Ephraim  hastily.  "  That's  all  right — perfeckly  right. 
What  I  want  is  to  see  ye  settled  comf  table. " 

"  'N'  yerself  settled  comf 'table  along  o'  me,"  added 
Maria,  with  some  bitterness. 

But  Ephraim  pretended  not  to  notice. 

"  A  wooman  't  ain't  married  ain't  no  good  in  this  world. 
She.'s  like  half  a  punkin  seed — she  won't  never  'mount  to 
nothin'.  Ye  orter  think  o'  it  serious,  Marian  Ye'll  never 
git  another  such  a  chance.  I  hope  ye  hain't  got  no  other 
notions  into  yer  head." 

She  flushed  hotly,  but  did  not  bid  him  to  hold  his  tongue 
as  he  expected  her  to  do. 

"  I  ain't  a  critter  o'  notions, "she  muttered  ;  "ye  know 
that.  I  don't  want  to  be  dependent  on  nobody.  It's  a 
pore  hen  't  can't  scratch  fer  herself. " 

"  Yes,  but  I  can  never  be  sure  o'  what's  comin'  to  ye, 
Mariar.  Ye've  been  so  sober  lately " 


248  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"  That's  'cause  I  ain't  had  no  ammunition  to  fire  with. 

"  So  sober  lately  't  I've  jes'  felt  all  the  time  like  ye  was 
secretly  goin'  ag'in'  yer  own  interests  'n'  the  interests  o' 
the  hull  fam'ly.  How's  a  man  to  know  what's  a-goin'  to 
git  into  a  wooman's  head  one  minnit  after  another  ?  A 
man  can  never  tell  what's  a-goin'  on  in  the  nex'  room,  'n' 
who  can  say  what  thoughts  go  frolickin'  aroun'  per- 
misc'us  under  a  young  wooman's  skull  ?  Lord  !  like  's 
not  they's  some  other  feller  this  minnit  't  ye're  sweet  on." 

Maria  went  on  ironing  but  her  face  was  burning.   . 

"Some  wuthless  chap,  mebbe,  't  '11  work  ye  like  a  ole 
hoss  'n'  live  off  'n  yer  wages. "  Ephraim  suddenly  recol 
lected  that  this  was  dangerous  ground  and  stopped  short. 
"I'd  hate  to  see  ye  make  a  bad  match,  Mariar,"  he  added, 
"after  havin'  a  chance  to  make  sech  a  good  'un." 

"  Ye  needn't  worry,  dad, "she  said,  very  quietly.  "I'll 
marry  whoever  I  like,  I  can  assure  ye  o'  that — if  I  can  git 
him.  'Tain't  ferjyou  to  be  callin'  folks  lazy  'n'  mean,  no 
how.  Fer  myself,  it  takes  so  much  o'  my  time  to  keep 
myself  clean  't  I  ain't  got  no  time  to  go  aroun'  advisin' 
my  neighbors  to  wash  theirselves,  'n'  if  ye'll  jes'  keep  yer- 
self  decent,  I  reckon  my  future  husban'  '11  git  along  nicely 
'thout  any  interference  o'  your'n." 

Her  tone  was  so  mild  that  Ephraim  thought  it  safe  to 
appear  offended. 

"  I  reckon  a  father  's  got  a  right  to  advise  his  own 
darter,"  he  said.  " 'N' even  if  he  hain't,  the  law  o' the 
land  'lows  a  man  to  speak  when  he  feels  like  it.  It's  a 
free  country " 

"  It's  a  free  country  fer  everybody  to  pay  their  way 
through,"  snickered  Maud  Eliza,  determined  to  be  face 
tious  till  the  last. 

Mrs.  Pugsley  here  gave  over  a  renewed  contemplation 
of  her  toilet,  and  remarked,  weakly  : 

"  I  don't  see  why  Mariar  can't  marry  ?im  to  wunst  'n' 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


249 


git  it  over  with.  That's  the  way  /  done,  'n'  I  was  more 
o'  a  Swipes  'n'  she  is.  Ye've  got  to  marry  sometime,  no 
matter  what  goes  afore  or  after.  'N'  it's  easier  'n  it  looks. 
All  ye've  got  to  do  's  to  stan'  up  afore  the  squire  'n'  say 
yes  to  everything  he  asks  ye,  'n'  there  ye  be  !  " 

Maria  made  no  reply,  but  when  Ephraim  started  on  the 
subject  again  she  told  him  so  decidedly  she  had  heard 
enough  of  it  that  he  wisely  concluded  to  say  no  more. 

That  evening  Billy  came  in  and  asked  Maria  to  go  with 
him  for  another  walk  by  the  river.  Ephraim  sat  at  the 
window  and  watched  the  two  young  people  as  they  dis 
appeared  among  the  cottonwoods. 

"  Mariar  '11  have  to  settle  the  matter  to-night,"  he  said 
to  Maud  Eliza  and  his  wife.  "  I  could  see  it  in  his  eye. 
'Sides  that,  Billy  told  me  to-day  that  was  what  he  was 
comin'  down  fer.  Ye  two  wimmin  can  go  to  bed  when 
ye  like,  but  I'm  goin'  to  wait  till  that  gal  comes  back  if 
it 's  till  midnight." 

It  was  quite  late  when  her  step  ascended  the  veranda, 
and  he  knew  that  she  was  alone.  Billy  had  evidently  not 
even  accompanied  her  to  the  gate.  The  moon  flared  like 
a  Pentecostal  flame  on  the  hills  ;  there  was  no  light  in  the 
room,  but  a  slant  flood  of  moonlight  poured  in  at  one  of 
the  windows  and  fell  full  upon  her  face  as  she  passed 
through  the  room.  She  looked  haggard,  almost  deathly 
in  the  wan  light,  and  her  eyes  were  red  as  if  with  long 
weeping. 

Ephraim  stirred  uneasily  to  attract  her  attention,  and 
she,  as  if  understanding  the  movement,  turned  toward 
him  with  her  face  in  shadow.  She  looked  at  him  a 
moment  in  silence  and  then  said,  almost  tenderly  : 

"  Have  ye  been  waitin'  fer  me  all  this  time,  dad  ?  Well, 
I've  settled  it.  I've  told  'im  I  couldn't  marry  'im — never. 
'N'  now  I  want  ye  never  to  say  'nother  word  to  me 
'bout  it." 


250  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

To  a  baby*  eyes  I  suppose  this  earth  appears  very  much 
as  it  did  in  primordial  times,  "  without  form  and  void." 
And  sometimes,  later  on  in  life,  after  long  battling  with  the 
social  elements  has  upset  our  nerves  and  dizzied  our 
brains,  after  the  sighing  insufficiency  of  everything  has 
culminated  in  some  particular  disappointment  which 
wrenches  us  out  of  harmony  with  our  surroundings,  we 
are  resolved,  so  to  speak,  into  our  elements,  and  presently 
find  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  evolution  of  new  worlds. 

The  process  of  reconstruction  is  likely  to  result  in  a 
madman  or  a  genius.  I  am  aware  that  this  view  of  the 
matter  seems  to  popularize,  and,  after  a  manner,  set  a 
premium  on  insanity,  (for  which,  Heaven  knows  !  there 
is  no  need),  but  at  second  thought  the  intelligent  reader 
can  hardly  fail  to  discover  a  solution  of  this  difficulty  in 
the  well-known  fact  that  one-half  the  world  considers  the 
other  half  foolish,  while  the  half  so  vilified  revenges  itself 
by  circulating  wild  stories  which  go  to  prove  that  its  vili- 
fier  is  insane.  Probably  most  of  us  would  object  to  our 
neighbor's  estimate  of  our  common-sense,  and  as  a  per 
sonal  estimate  would  by  no  means  be  accepted  by  our 
neighbor,  we  are  constrained  to  let  the  matter  rest  where 
we  find  it,  and,  by  refraining  from  poetry,  avoid  a  rep 
utation  for  utter  imbecility. 

In  the  matter  of  disappointments  the  softening  influence 
of  science  is  noticeable  in  these  days.  After  longer  as 
tronomical  observation  than  would  seem  necessary,  the 
average  man  finds  himself  on  the  verge  of  tearful  melan 
choly  on  discovering  that,  in  spite  of  hope's  flattering  tale, 
the  moon  is  not  made  of  green  cheese ;  that,  were  it  so 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH,  2  5 1 

constituted,  no  mortal  could  by  any  possible  means 
obtain  as  much  as  a  bite  of  it ;  and  that,  even  were  it  an 
easy  thing  to  satisfy  this  celestial  soul-hunger,  a  most 
distressing  state  of  the  stomach  would  probably  ensue, — 
the  pernicious  qualities  of  green  cheese  being  but  one  of 
many  unforgivable  oversights  in  a  creation  which  often 
refuses  to  adapt  means  to  ends.  Thus  science  offers 
alleviations  for  the  wounds  of  the  spirit  by  teaching  indi 
rectly  that  what  we  cannot  get  we  are  more  comfortable 
without  getting. 

A  lunar  disappointment,  traced  through  its  various 
stages  as  above,  may  be  easily  construed  to  mean  a  love 
disappointment,  certain  indefinable  relations  having  been 
established  between  lovers  and  the  moon  ever  since  love 
and  the  moon  were  in  a  rudimentary  state  ;  it  being  un 
derstood  that  oysters  and  other  beings  of  mild  intelligence 
were  the  chief  exponents  of  the  tender  passion  in  remote 
ages  as  at  the  present  day. 

But  in  a  simple,  untutored  nature  like  Billy  Bling's, 
having  no  powers  of  philosophic  generalization,  capable 
of  strong,  loving,  unreasoning  emotions,  containing  none 
of  the  starch  of  scientific  deduction,  there  is  nothing,  as 
in  the  case  of  us  wise  astronomers  who  crave  green 
cheese,  to  stiffen  the  faculties  at  the  moment  of  dis 
appointment  and  collapse,  and  prevent  certain  mental 
disorders  which  flavor  oddly  of  poetry,  madness,  and 
healthy  human  sentiment.  And  we  wise  people,  who 
have  doubtless  never  done  anything  foolish  or  mad  or 
human,  smile  and  sigh  over  it  and  call  it  very  pitiful, 
never  suspecting  that  what  we  pity  as  weakness  may  be 
such  genuine  strength  as  the  heaped-up  refinement  of  the 
world  cannot  balance  in  the  scale  of  magnanimity. 

The  peculiarity  of  Billy's  mental  condition  after  that 
decisive  moonlight  meeting  with  Maria  manifested  itself 
most  strangely  in  the  readiness  with  which  he  stifled  the 


252  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

pain  of  his  great  disappointment  and  converted  his  love 
for  her  into  an  overflow  ing  energy  of  unselfish  friendship. 
He  went  from  that  interview  stunned  like  one  who  has 
fallen  from  a  tower.  Several  times  he  stopped  on  the  way 
home  to  rest  and  look  about  him  and  try  to  understand 
what  had  happened.  He  could  remember  that  she  had 
said  she  did  not  love  him  as  a  wife  should  love  her  hus 
band,  and  that  she  could  never  be  his.  It  had  all  been 
made  plain  of  late,  she  added.  The  consciousness  of 
irremediable  rejection  was  with  him  from  the  first,  like 
the  consciousness  of  his  wretched,  broken  life ;  but  that 
was  not  what  wrought  most  keenly  on  his  thoughts. 
What  he  could  not  understand  was  her  ambiguous  words 
and  actions.  She  had  been  very  kind  to  him — he  remem 
bered  her  kindness  not  only  as  a  pain  to  himself,  but  as 
a  proof  that  she  could  never  care  for  him  as  he  wished. 

11  Billy,  Billy  !  "  she  had  cried,  and  he  remembered  how 
the  moonlight  rested  on  her  white  face,  "  if  ye  knowed — 
if  ye  only  knowed,  ye  wouldn't  blame  me,  ye  couldn't 
have  the  heart !  " 

She  had  gone  on  to  tell  him  brokenly  that  she,  too,  was 
miserable,  unutterably  miserable, — that  she  wished  she 
were  dead  and  out  of  all  the  trouble  that  .had  come  upon 
her.  He  could  never  forget  how  she  said  that  she  wished 
she  were  dead.  She  looked  so  white  and  yet  so  pas 
sionate — there  was-something  about  her  that  chilled  him 
and  made  him  think  that  she  was  already  dead  and  had 
opened  her  cold  lips  in  a  sudden  passion  of  sorrow  to  tell 
him  of  her  grief.  He  could  not  question  her  then,  and  h" 
would  not  have  done  so  if  he  could.  He  had  left  her 
without  a  word  ;  it  was  all  that  he  could  do. 

As  he  sat  on  a  stone  by  the  way  that  night,  he  had  tried 
to  think  of  it  collectedly,  but  his  thoughts  were  rambling 
and  incoherent — sometimes  of  himself,  oftener  of  some 
irrelevant  detail  of  her  face  or  voice.  He  could  only  utter 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  253 

brokenly,  ''Poor  Mariar  !  "  or  repeat  in  a  vacant  way, 
"  I  wish  't  I  knowed — I  wish  't  I  knowed  !  "  He  could 
hardly  get  farther  than  that  simple  wish.  And  then  he 
thought  feebly  of  what  the  future  might  do.  Perhaps  she 
would  tell  him  her  sorrow  if  he  urged  her,  sometime ;  he 
would  like  to  help  her  and  see  her  happy,  even  if  he  were 
always  miserable  himself.  How  could  a  girl  like  her  be 
miserable,  he  wondered;  .she  had  in  her  all  that  is  nec 
essary  to  life  and  happiness  in  others.  It  was  strange 
that  she  could  be  unhappy  in  herself. 

He  rose  and  walked  on  up  the  path.  The  moon  was 
shining  and  all  the  stars  were  out.  All  about  him  the 
sweet,  soft  grass  of  the  valley  rose  to  his  knees,  and  he 
could  see  the  flowers  everywhere  in  the  moonlight.  He 
did  not  care  for  them  now  any  more  than  he  cared  for  the 
stars  in  the  sky  ;  they  were  all  equally  remote,  imper 
sonal,  unimpressive.  He  remembered  as  in  a  dream  that 
he  had  gathered  some  blue-flags  for  Maria  when  he  passed 
down  this  path  between  the  foothills  and  the  river  earlier 
in  the  evening,  but  she  had  hardly  noticed  them  when  he 
gave  them  to  her,  only  pulling  them  absently  to  pieces 
and  letting  them  fall  upon  the  grass.  That  was  before  he 
asked  her  for  her  decision — ages  ago,  he  thought,  when 
x  he  was  young  and  hopeful.  He  pulled  a  handful  of  the 
delicate  blossoms  now  and  crushed  them  against  his  palm, 
then  let  them  drop  one  by  one.  They  had  no  meaning 
for  him,  these  petalled  histories  of  life  ;  if  Maria  did  not 
care  for  them,  of  what  use  were  they  in  the  world  ? " 

Well,  it  was  all  ended  now,  the  hope  and  the  longing. 
He  walked  forward  with  bowed  head,  feeling  a  vague  pity 
for  his  wounded  self,  such  as  he  had  once  felt  in  holding 
a  broken-winged  bird  in  his  hands  and  watching  its  forced 
resignation  to  inactive  pain  after  a  season  of  aspiration 
and  vivid  joy.  His  sorrow  seemed  quite  close  to  him,  and 
yet  very  far  away.  All  ended  !  He  repeated  the 


254  IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

hollowly,  dully,  listening  to  them  as  he  might  listen  in  a 
trance  to  the  clods  falling  upon  his  own  coffin.  It  was 
the  end  of  all  things  to  him — he  might  go  on  existing  from 
day  to  day,  but  all  real  life  and  happiness  were  over  for 
ever.  Not  that  he  cared  so  much  for  himself — he  could 
bear  anything  but  the  knowledge  that  Maria  was  crushed 
beneath  the  weight  of  some  secret  sorrow.  He  could 
have  cried  aloud  to  Heaven  out  of  sympathy  for  her.  His 
own  trouble  was  too  hopeless  to  manifest  itself  aggres 
sively  in  cries  of  lamentation.  It  lay  under  all  thought 
and  feeling  like  a  recognized,  insidious  disease. 

He  had  hoped  for  so  much — he  had  looked  forward  with 
such  joyous  expectation  to  possessing  all  that  he  really 
cared  for  in  the  world ;  not  because  he  had  ever  believed 
himself  worthy  of  Maria's  regard — his  reverent  love  had 
always  placed  her  infinitely  beyond  him — but  because  he 
had  cherished  a  wish-begotten  faith  that  she  might  some 
how  care  for  him  in  spite  of  his  faults — might  regard  these 
faults  with  womanly  pity,  and  try  to  cure  him  of  them 
and  make  him  more  like  her.  What  might  he  not  become, 
with  her  always  at  his  side,  aiding,  encouraging,  admon 
ishing,  as  he  felt  that  she  alone  had  power  to  do  !  Love, 
like  the  fruit-tree  whose  seed  is  in  itself,  has  in  it  all  the 
highest  possibilities  of  existence.  It  is  a  glorious  thing — 
it  is  prophetic  of  ever-increasing  glory.  And  even  if 
Maria  could  not  care  for  him  now,  he  would  be  willing  to 
wait  if  she  would  only  let  him  hope,  only  let  him  believe 
that  she  would  finally  turn  to  him.  But  she  had  left  no 
chance  for  him  to  delude  himself  further ;  her  words  had 
been  decisive,  and  her  manner  had  been  even  more  deci 
sive  than  her  words. 

So,  by  the  time  Billy  reached  his  cabin  that  night,  all 
sensation  of  personal  grief  was  merged  in  the  greater 
trouble  of  knowing  that  Maria  was  suffering  and  might 
need  his  help.  His  own  longings  had  already  receded 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


255 


into  the  background,  forming  a  setting,  as  it  were,  for  her 
all-important  sorrow.  It  did  not  matter  about  himself. 
He  deserved  no  better  ;  but  she — he  thought  of  her  with 
a  yearning  which  was  almost  pain.  He  longed  to  do 
something  for  her,  to  carry  all  her  troubles  for  her,  to 
soothe  her,  comfort  her  and  lef  her  walk  lightly  through 
life,  as  was  becoming,  among  the  flowers  and  in  the  sun 
shine.  It  did  not  matter  what  happened  to  him.  He  felt 
that  his  dead  hopes  were  finally  buried.  Let  them  go  ! 
What  did  it  profit  to  think  of  them,  to  mourn  over  them, 
to  try  to  resuscitate  them  ? 

He  did  not  lie  down  that  night  nor  .sleep  at  all.  Most 
of  the  time  he  sat  quite  still,  crouched  in  the  little  door 
way,  thinking,  thinking.  Once  in  a  while  he  went  a  short 
distance  down  the  gulch,  but  came  back  directly  and  sat 
down  in  his  old  position,  like  a  prisoner  who  has  walked 
the  length  of  his  chain  and  feels  the  uselessness  of  a 
further  attempt  at  freedom.  But  gradually  his  ideas  be 
came  clearer.  He  could  keep  his  mind  on  Maria's  troubles 
quite  steadily  without  thinking  of  himself,  except  as  a 
possible  means  of  helping  her.  He  had  no  future — that 
was  hers.  He  saw  no  pathos  in  a  vision  he  had  of  him 
self  going  out  to  his  work  day  after  day,  hopelessly  living 
a  star-crossed  life  which  must  wander  from  the  darkness 
of  the  world  into  the  darkness  of  the  grave — a  cheerless 
pilgrimage.  He  felt  that  he  could  neither  conceal  nor 
parade  his  hopeless  love.  If  people  guessed  the  truth,  as 
they  might  easily  do,  it  was  well ;  if  not,  better.  Maria 
would  always  know.  He  would  hide  nothing,  reveal 
nothing.  The  scars  of  life  are  honorable  scars  whose 
wearing  shames  no  man.  He  felt  nothing  of  the  grand 
eur  of  renunciation  in  what  he  did — he  only  knew  that 
Maria  willed  it  so,  and  that  was  enough.  He  did  not 
philosophize  ;  he  oould  not  have  done  so  on  a  less  per 
sonal  subject.  And  this  was  just  as  well  for  him,,  singe  it 


256  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

is  a  well-known  fact  that  philosophy  is  a  balm  for  every* 
body's.wounds  but  one's  own. 

So  the  night  passed  and  the  morning  came,  and  Billy 
took  his  pick  and  shovel  and  went  out  to  work  as  usual. 
He  cared  nothing  for  his  promising  claim  now,  but  he 
must  do  something,  and  digging  was  the  nearest  thing  at 
hand.  His  long  night's  watch  had  not  been  entirely  with  • 
out  results.  He  half  suspected  the  real  cause  of  Maria's 
sorrow.  Perhaps  she  loved  some  other  man — doubtless 
that  was  it !  Billy  did  not  mind  that  particularly  now. 
She  ought  to  marry  the  man  she  cared  for.  Nobody  was 
too  good  for  her.  At  any  rate,  there  was  no  hope  for  him, 
and  why  should  they  both  be  unhappy?  Perhaps  she 
would  tell  him  all  about  it  if  he  asked  her  ?  She  was  sure 
to  consider  him  her  friend  and  trust  him.  And  perhaps, 
if  she  would  tell  him,  he  could  help  her  ?  However,  until 
she  saw  fit  to  give  him  her  confidence  he  could  do 
nothing. 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  II A  VI L AH. 


257 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

SEVERAL  days  passed,  and  Billy  became  almost  cheerful 
in  thinking  of  Maria  and  planning  for  her  future.  He 
even  smiled  a  little  one  evening  as  he  passed  down  the 
gulch  and  out  into  the  open  valley,  assuring  himself  that 
she  would  be  glad  to  see  him  after  so  long  an  absence. 
She  would  be  glad  to  see  him,  he  felt  sure,  for  she  liked 
him  as  a  friend  if  nothing  more. 

' '  'N  she  needs  a  friend  in  this  'ere  trouble  o'  her  'n, 
whatever  'tis,"  he  said  to  himself,  passing  down  the  green 
path  in  the  moonlight.  " '  N'  I'll  sta'n'  by  'er  'n'  help  'er'n' 
be  a  brother  to  'er,  'n'  I'll  learn  to  be  contented  with  that." 

His  sudden  appearance  at  the  door  of  the  Pugsley  cabin 
must  have  elicited  a  scream  from  a  fashionable  young 
lady  whose  digestion  has  been  refined  by  a  diet  of  French 
candy  and  daily  piano  practice  continued  through  a  term 
of  years,  but  as  Maria  was  unacquainted  with  these  means 
of  painting  the  lily  of  modern  womanhood,  and  especially 
as  she  had  just  fortified  her  naturally  strong  constitution 
by  a  hearty  supper  of  bacon  and  beans,  washed  down 
with  black  coffee,  she  only  glanced  up  smilingly  as  Billy 
thrust  his  head  out  of  the  darkness  and  said  : 

11  Oh,  is  it  you,  Billy?    Why,  come  in,  then." 

She  seemed  in  the  very  best  of  spirits,  and  he  was  glad 
of  that,  for  he  had  half  feared  to  find  her  pale  and  shaken 
as  he  had  seen  her  last.  So  he  came  in  smiling  too,  with 
his  hat  in  his  hand,  stumbling  over  the  ill-constructed 
threshold  and  grasping  at  a  chair  to  keep  from  falling. 
He  was  a  very  awkward  man.  Maria  laughed  aloud. 
There  was  no  consciousness  of  embarrassing  memories 
in  her  voice  as  she  said  ; 

17 


258  /Ar  THE   VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"I  b'lieve  ye  git  boots  three-four  sizes  too  big  jest  a 
purpose  to  stumble  over  things  !  " 

Billy  twirled  his  hat  round  and  round  on  his  ringer,  still 
smiling. 

"It  ain't  a  question  o'  boots  altogether,  Mariar,"  he 
said,  with  quiet  humor.  "The  man  inside  o'  'em  's*the 
principal  thing. " 

"Don't  ye  go  to  recommending  yourself,  now,"  she 
continued,  shaking  her  head  and  arranging  her  sewing 
in  her  lap. 

"Well,  then,  I'll  let  the  moon  do  the  recommendin' 
fer  me,"  he  answered.  "See  how  bright  it  shines  out 
there  on  the  water !  ye  can  jes'  see  a  long  line  o'  light 
flashin'  through  the  trees  where  the  river  is.  I  wonder 
how  many  times  I've  asked  ye  to  go  out  there  walkin' 
with  me  sense  we  met  early  in  the  spring  ? " 

"A  good  many/'  replied  Maria,  gently. 

"Come!  put  up  yer  work  'n'  let's  go  out  for  a  little 
while.  Lor  !  the  walks  we've  had  out  there  together  !  I 
ain't  had  a  chance  to  talk  to  ye  fer  a  age  !  Ye  don't  know 
how  good  the  night  feels  'n'  how  big  'n'  white  the  moun 
tains  look.  Ye've  been  in  the  house  all  day,  I  bet,  'n' 
it'll  do  ye  all  sorts  o'  good  to  git  a  whiff  of  fresh  air." 

Maria  laid  aside  her  sewing  carefully. 

"Yes/'  she  answered,  "  I've  been  in  the  house  all  day, 
fer  they  was  a  big  washin'  to  do  'n'  ma  'sbeen  uncommon 
bad  besides.  She's  in  bed  now,  'n'  dad's  out  som'ers. 
Maud  Eliza's  tryin'  to  read  a  dime  novel  by  candle-light 
in  the  woodshed.  She's  took  to  that  lately.  I  reckon  I'd 
like  a  walk." 

And  the  two  passed  out  under  the  clear  evening  sky. 

It  was  a  lovely  night.  The  air  was  full  of  stars,  poised 
and  tremulous  ;  they  are  bubbles  blown  from  God's  mouth. 
The  mountains  were  piled  up  against  the  sky,  like  thun- 
derheads.  The  full  moon  swung  over  the  far  white 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  259 

summits,  a  burnished  silver  disk,  and  the  milky  way  with 
the  stars  in  its  wake  looked  like  a  wreath  of  pale  smoke 
alive  with  sparks. 

"Ye'd  better  take  my  arm/'  said  Billy,  though  he  knew 
that  she  would  refuse. 

Maria  laughed. 

"  If  ye'd  a  seen  the  washin'  I  done  to  day/'  she  cried, 
and  the  moonlight  flashed  across  her  smiling  lips  and 
white  teeth,  "I  recken  ye  wouldn't  think  I'm  too  weak 
to  walk  alone.  No,  no,  Billy  ;  keep  yer  arm  for  some 
gal  't  needs  it.  I'd  ruther  walk  by  myself.  Ye  don't 
know  how  how  strong  I  be  ;  w'y,  I'm  a  reg'lar  hoss  o'  a 
wooman  !  " 

"  Hosses  needs  a  man  to  take  care  o'  em,  the  strongest 
o'  em/'  remarked  Billy,  slyly. 

"  Maria  frowned. 

"Well,  /don't !  "  she  declared  with  emphasis. 

' 'Let's  set  down  here  by  the  river,"  said  he,  "where 
we've  sat  so  many  times  'n'  where  we  can  see  the  moon 
light  on  the  water.  How  't  darts  'n'  changes  'n'  flashes  ! 
It  dazzles  my  eyes.  There  !  be  ye  comftable?"  He  laid 
his  big  hand  caressingly  on  her  shoulder  a  moment.  ' '  I'd 
like  ye  to  be  comftable,  allus, "  he  added  in  a  lower  voice. 

He  had  not  meant  to  speak  or  act  with  more  than 
brotherly  tenderness,  but  he  was  conscious  of  having 
done  so,  and  resolved  to  be  more  careful.  He  would  not 
cause  her  pain  for  the  world. 

Both  sat  silent  for  some  time,  listening  to  the  water  and 
looking  up  dreamily  at  the  stars.  At  last  Maria  stirred 
and  spoke  slowly. 

"D'ye  know,  Billy,  I've  got  lately  so  't  I  love  the  sky 
most  's  well  's  I  do  the  waters.  I  never  watch  the  stars 
come  out  'without  thinkrrT  o'  when  they  fust  appeared  in 
the  sky  'n'  no  one  was  there  to  see  'em.  I  wonder  if 
they  shone  's  bright  then  's  what  they  do  now  ? " 


260  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

"God  was  there  !  "  said  Billy,  solemnly,  with  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  heavens. 

She  had  been  sitting  with  her  chin  propped  upon  her 
hand,  and  she  turned  her  face  toward  him  quickly  with 
her  head  slightly  lifted. 

"  Ye  allus.  understood  me  better  'n  anybody  else/'  she 
said,  softly.  "  I  don't  see  how  ye  do  it." 

The  kindly  appreciation  in  her  words  and  voice  over 
mastered  his  resolve  to  keep  silent  concerning  himself. 
He  said  in  a  low,  husky  tone  : 

"I  hope  ye  ain't  sot  ag'in'  me,  Mariar  ?  I  hope  ye 
ain't  got  nothin'  ag'in'  me  more  'n  my  ill  looks  'n'  awk'ard 
ways  ? " 

"  No,  Billy,  'tain't  that;  don't  ye  think  it.  I  ain't  got 
the  fust  thing  ag'in'  ye — not  the  fust  thing.  Don't  I  know 
ye're  the  kindest,  best  o'  men  ?  Ain't  I  got  every  reason 
to  think  so  ?  "  She  reached  out  and  laid  her  hand  on  his, 
but  directly  a  tremor  passed  through  his  frame  and  the 
hand  she  held  glided  uncertainly  from  her  touch.  "Don't 
I  know  yefre  honest  'n'  brave  'n'  true — that  ye'd  willin'ly 
give  up  yer  happiness  fer  mine — yer  life  fer  mine,  if  they 
-  was  need  o'  it  ? " 

He  listened  as  reverently  as  if  to  some  one  praying. 

"  Ay,  gladly  !  "  she  heard  him  mutter  under  his  breath. 

"  I  know  it,"  she  went  on,  reaching  out  again  for  his 
hand,  which  he  again  drew  away  as  if  some  restless,  con 
tradictory  impulse  made  him  repellent  of  the  very  friend 
ship  which  he  craved.  "But  I  don't  love  ye — not  that 
way,  Billy — 'n'  that's  the  long  'n'  short  o'  it.  I  told  ye 
wunst,  the  las'  time  I  saw  ye.  I  like  ye  as  a  friend — 
don't  ye  see  the  dif 'rence  ? " 

"  Yes,  I  see,"  was  the  scarcely  audible  answer. 

She  could  not  repress  a  rising  irritation  at  his  compliant 
words  and  remote,  unheeding  looks. 

"  Then  what  makes  ye  do  it  ?"  she  cried,  impelled  to 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  26 1 

a  momentary  fault-finding  where  she  wished  to  be  tender. 
"  How  many  times  do  ye  have  to  be  told  ?  Ye  know  I 
don't  like  it.  Ye  know  I  hate  it.  What  makes  ye  do  it, 
I  say  ? " 

"  Seems  like  I  couldn't  help  it  this  wunst,"  he  said. 
Then,  after  a  long  pause,  he  turned  to  her  again,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  light  from  the  water  was  still  in  his 
eyes.  "  But  I  won't  do  it  ag'in,  I  promise  ye  that.  Be 
a  little  easy  with  me  this  wunst,  my  gal.  I  won't  do  it 
ag'in." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of  cold  wonder.  All  the 
gaiety  with  which  he  had  met  her  was  gone,  and  his  face 
looked  so  drawn  and  old  and  white. 

"Ye  ain't  mad  at  me,  Billy?"  she  questioned,  half 
timidly.  It  was  not  anger  that  his  face  expressed,  but  she 
could  not  imagine  what  else  it  could  be.  "I'd  like  to  be 
friends  with  ye.  Ye've  been  very  good  to  me." 

"  Mad  at  ye  ?  No,  no  !  I  ain't  made  at  ye,"  he  re 
turned,  quickly.  "  How  could  ye  think  o'  sech  a  thing  ? 
How  could  I  be  mad  at  ye  ?  Ye're  the  best  gal  in  the 
world,  'n  fit  fer  the  best  o'  everything ;  'n'  it's  very  good 
o'  ye — more  'n'  I  deserve — to  want  to  be  friends  with  a 
no-'count  feller  like  me." 

He  was  staring  at  the  water  again  in  a  spell-bound, 
unheeding  way,  which  was  neither  self-absorbed  nor 
rightly  conscious  of  external  things.  Maria  shivered. 
He  looked  so  patient,  so  pitiful,  so  needy.  Something  of 
the  real  pathos  of  his  great  renunciation,  of  the  life-long 
sorrow  she  had  unwittingly  caused  him,  must  have  flashed 
upon  her,  for  she  rose  suddenly  from  her  seat  at  his  side 
and,  flinging  her  arms  above  her  head,  burst  into  a  pas 
sion  of  self-reproachful  tears.  He  was  beside  her  in  an 
instant  and  had  drawn  her  to  him,  laying  her  head  against 
his  breast  and  soothing  her  with  tender,  broken  words,  as 
if  she  were  a  grieving  child.  She  did  not  try  to  break 


262  IX  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAff. 

away  from  him,  but  rather  sought  the  touch  of  his  hard, 
caressing  hand. 

"  W'y,  what  've  I  done  ?  "  he  cried,  smoothing  her  dis 
ordered  hair.  "  What  a  beast  I  am  to  make  ye  cry  so  ! 
There,  there,  there,  my  gal.  Don't  cry — don't  cry.  See, 
yell  make  a  fool  o'  me,  Marian  How  can  I  help  cryin', 
too,  when  ye  take  on  so  ?  Don't  cry,  there's  my  good 
gal.  There  !  Dry  yer  eyes  'n'  don't  cry. " 

He  soothed  her  thus  till  gradually  her  sobs  subsided, 
and  she  looked  into  his  face  with  the  tears  still  heavy  on 
her  long  lashes. 

"I  couldn't  help  it,"  she  whispered,  still  clinging  to 
him.  "  Ye  looked  so  deathly  still  'n'  white.  Oh,  Billy, 
Billy,  can  ye  ever  fergive  me  ?  I  wish,"  she  cried,  break 
ing  away  from  him  a  little  way  but  still  holding  his  hands, 
"  I  wish  ye  was  my  brother,  then  this  'ud  never  a-hap- 
pened  'n'  things  'ud  be  jes'  's  they  orter  be.  'N'  how 
comf 'table  we  could  live  together  !  " 

"  I'll  be  yer  brother — anything  ye  like — only  don't  cry 
no  more.  It  kills  me  to  see  ye  in  trouble.  There !  that's 
right.  Now  let's  set  down  'n'  talk  like  brother  'n'  sister. 
That's  what  we  air  now,  ye  know.  Only  see  !  "  and  he 
looked  at  her  with  a  pitiful,  uncertain  smile,  "  ye've  'most 
made  me  cry,  too  !  " 

He  placed  her  gently  on  the  bank  and  then  seated  him 
self  a  little  farther  from  her  than  he  had  been  before, — so 
far  that  she  could  not  reach  out  her  hand  and  touch  him 
again. 

"  I  want  to  ask  ye  a  question,"  he  said,  presently. 
"  We're  brother  'n'  sister  now,"  he  added,  as  if  to  remind 
her  of  his  right  to  her  friendship  and  confidence. 

1  <  Well?"  said  she. 

"  Ye  must  answer  it  true  and  honest,"  he  continued. 
"  If  I'm  to  be  yer  brother,  ye  must  let  me  share  yer 
troubles." 


!N  THE  VALLEY  OF  ffAVlLAH.  263 

"Well  ?  "  she  repeated.  |He  thought  her  voice  sounded 
a  little  anxious  and  afraidjj  He  leaned  toward  her  ear 
nestly  and  reassuringly. 

"  Ye  needn't  be  afeerd  to  tell  me  anything  't  's  on  yer 
mind,  my  dear.  Who  could  keer  fer  ye  more,  or  respect 
yer  wishes  stronger  ?  All  I  want  is  fer  ye  to  be  happy. 
Ye  b'lieve  that  ?  " 

"  Yes/'  was  the  faint  response. 

"  Then  answer  me."  He  leaned  forward  and  looked 
into  her  face  with  his  big,  penetrating  eyes,  while  his 
voice  rang  out  with  a  sort  of  massive  seriousness. 

"  D'ye  keer  fer  Jim  Hulse,  Mariar,  in  the  way — 't  ye 
don't  keer  fer  me  ?  "  There  was  only  one  little  pause  in 
his  rapid,  decisive  utterance  of  the  words.  "  Ye  said 
wunst  't  ye  didn't,  but  that  might  a-been  afore  ye  knowed 
yer  own  mind.  Answer  me  now." 

She  drew  away  from  him  as  from  something  super 
natural. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  urged. 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  apron,  but  his  voice  pursued, 
and  she  felt  that  he  was  leaning  eagerly  toward  her  in  the 
moonlight. 

"  Tell  me,"  he  repeated,  gently. 

He  strained  still  further  forward  to  catch  the  word 
which  he  knew  would  come.  She  drew  a  long  inhala 
tion,  as  if  preparing  for  an  outburst  of  passion.  But  she 
was  silent  for  an  instant. 

"Tell  me,  Maria,"  said  the  gentle,  pleading  voice  again, 

"  Billy,  Billy  !  "  she  cried,  her  long-pent-up  soul  leap 
ing  out  in  the  stifled  words,  "how  did  ye  know — how  did 
ye  guess  ?  I  thought  I'd  kep'  it  from  everyone— almost 
from  myself.  Oh,  Billy,  if  ye  knowed  how  I've  fought 

ag'in'  it — if  ye  knowed "  She  broke  off  with  a  sudden 

choking  sound  in  her  voice. 

He  arose  and  stood  with  his  arms  behind  him. 


264  M  THE   VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LA  If. 

11  I  think  I  know — I  think  I  understan',"  he  said,  with 
grave  simplicity. 

She  went  on  more  calmly  : 

"  I  fought  so  hard  ag'in'  it.  I  tried  so  hard  not  to  think 
o'  him — so  hard  to  drive  him  out  o'  my  mind  and  make 
myself  free  the  way  I  was  afore.  But  his  eyes  follered 
me ;  they  burned  in  the  dark  at  me ;  they  scorched  their- 
selves  into  my  flesh  !  "  She  put  her  hand  to  her  head  in 
a  frightened  way,  and  went  on  rapidly  :  "  It  's  a  relief  to 
tell  how  it  was — it  does  me  good.  The  fault  was  in  my 
nater — I  was  allus  afeerd  o'  what  I  couldn't  understan' — 
afeerd  o'  it  V  fascinated,  like.  It  was  so  with  the  river 
'n'  the  stars,  don't  ye  'member  ?  'N'  he  was  like  them, 
only  stronger,  fuller  o'  myst'ry.  He  clutched  me  and  mas 
tered  me  with  his  eyes.  A  look  o'  his  'ud  make  me  foller 
'im  through  fire  'n'  water.  I  loved  'im  in  spite  o'  myself 
— I  love  'im  nqw.  I'd  give  my  soul  fer  one  kind  word 
from  'im."  She  ended  with  a  sob,  and  hid  her  face  again 
in  her  apron. 

Billy  unclasped  his  hands  from  behind  him,  and  drew 
himself  erect. 

"I  knowed  it,"  he  said,  very  quietly.  "I've  been 
keepin'  track  o'  it  'thout  knowin'  what  I  was  doin'.  It  's 
all  been  made  plain  in  the  las' few  days.  I  knowed  it  was 
him — Jim  Hulse. " 

She  uncovered  her  face.     It  was  all  hot  and  crimson. 

"  Ye  made  me  tell  ye  !  "  she  cried,  almost  resentfully. 

"  Ye  won't  be  sorry  fer  trustin'  yer  brother,"  he  said. 
" It  '11  be  all  right." 

"  Ye  won't  tell  nobody?"  she  asked,  in  sudden  fear. 
"  Ye  don't  mean  to  tell  nobody,  Billy?  Nobody  knows 
but  yerself — nobody  in  the  world." 

"  It's  all  right,"  was  the  answer. 

"  But  ye  won't  tell — promise  me  ye  won't  tell ! " 

But  he  only  repeated  softly  : 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  265 

"  It  '11  be  all  right — I'll  make  it  all  right,  my  dear." 

"I  know  ye'll  do  as  I  want  ye  to,"  she  said.  "I'd  die 
o'  shame — I  wouldn't  a-owned  up  if  ye  hadn't  made  me  !  " 
she  added,  irritably. 

But  he  made  no  reply. 

"  I'm  goin'  home  now,"  she  said,  after  a  moment. 
"  I've  made  a  fool  o'  myself,  'n'  I  hope  ye're  satisfied! 
Ye  needn't  trouble  to  go  along  o'  me.  I'm  tired,  'n'  I'd 
ruther  be  alone.  I've  had  a  hard  day's  work." 

Still  he  did  not  answer,  but  stood  quite  motionless,  star 
ing  out  at  the  restless  water.  With  a  movement  of  petu 
lance,  she  turned  from  him  and  slipped  away  among  the 
shadows,  leaving  him  there  with  his  own  strange  thoughts. 


266  W  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAV1LAH. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE  next  morning  Billy  came  to  a  resolution.  Very 
early,  before  the  sun  was  up,  he  started  for  Jim  Hulse's 
cabin.  The  light  was  just  glancing  above  the  eastern 
hills  as  he  entered  the  little  enclosure,  crossed  the  brook 
and  went  up  to  the  open  door.  He  knew  that  Hulse  was 
an  early  riser,  and  this  morning,  as  he  looked  into  the 
cabin,  he  saw  its  occupant  busily  engaged  in  washing  his 
breakfast  dishes. 

"  I'll  wait  till  ye  git  through,  Jim,"  said  Billy,  as  Hulse 
looked  up.  "Then  I  wish  't  ye'd  come  out  'ere  a  minute. 
I've  got  suthin'  on  my  mind  't  I  want  to  say  to  ye." 

He  walked  down  through  the  narrow  opening  of  the 
enclosure  and  stood  there,  leaning  against  the  cliffs,  wait 
ing  for  Hulse  to  come  out.  The  light  had  strengthened. 
The  eastern  sky  was  full  of  clouds  as  delicately  tinted  as 
sprays  of  apple  blossoms,  and  there  was  a  long  furrow  of 
white  across  the  blue  dome  from  north  to  south.  A  little 
in  front  of  the  rock  against  which  he  leaned,  where  the 
shadows  fell  thickest,  a  few  tall  willows  were  just  burst 
ing  into  leaf,  their  dainty  catkins  showing  like  frostwork 
against  the  clear  window  of  the  air.  Billy  heard  the  lisp 
ing-  waters  absently,  and,  after  a  few  moments,  turned 
back  Into  the  enclosure.  The  wild-plum  blossoms  were 
mostly  fallen  ;  but  a  shivering  scent  of  them  was  still  in 
the  air.  As  he  half  stopped,  looking  up  at  the  tree,  a  little 
bird  alighted"  on  one  of  the  branches  and  commenced  to 
sing  shrilly  and  gladly,  every  tiny  feather  quivering  with 
the  ecstatic  earnestness  of  song.  Billy  regarded  it  curi 
ously — the  place  had  seemed  so  still  a  moment  before. 

Presently  Hulse  came  out,   putting  on  his  hat  as  he 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LA II.  267 

came.  Billy  forgot  all  about  the  bird  then,  and  moved  a 
few  steps  toward  his  rival,  who  paused  under  the  plum 
tree  and  regarded  his  visitor  with  narrow,  all-seeing  eyes. 
Billy  placed  his  hands  on  his-  hips,  according  to  an  awk 
ward  habit  of  his,  and  stood  quite  silent. 

"  You  have  something  to  say  to  me?"  asked  Hulse,  in 
his  slow,  emotionless  voice. 

How  deeply  his  eyes  were  set  under  those  square, 
prominent  brows,  and  how  passionate  and  hopeless  they 
looked,  as  if  the  coals  of  a  devastated  past  still  smoldered 
there  and  would  not  die  out  !  The  mystery  of  this  man's 
life  insisted  itself  in  every  glance  and  movement.  His 
appearance  was  like  the  curtain  of  a  theatre ;  you  longed 
to  see  behind  it — to  know  the  inmost  workings  of  that 
tragic  world.  But  the  curtain  of  Jim  Hulse' s  soul  was 
never  lifted.  The  tragedy  of  crime  or  disappointment 
had  been  acted,  as  far  as  men  knew,  without  a  spectator. 
Billy  could  understand  the  influence  of  those  eyes  on 
Maria,  for  he,  too,  had  been  in  a  measure  coerced  by 
their  mysterious  authority.  He  felt  awed,  as  if  in  the 
presence  of  a  great  sorrow  or  a  shipwreck.  Hulse's  mel 
ancholy  lay  upon  everything  around  him,  like  the  shadow 
of  a  giant  oak  upon  the  green  sward. 

Billy  dug  the  toe  of  his  great  boot  into  the  ground,  try 
ing  to  think  of  a  way  to  begin  ;  then  with  a  sudden  back 
ward  jerk  of  his  head,  as  if  flinging  off  an  embarrassment 
which  was  unworthy  of  the  cause  he  had  come  to  advocate, 
he  burst  forth  with  rough,  incisive  directness  : 

' l  Ye  know  me,  Jim  Hulse  !     Ye've  knowed  me  a  good 
many  years  now.     I  can  joke  \\    play  the  fool,  'n'  I've 
done  it  often  ;  but  when  I  say  a  thing  in  earnest  I  mean 
it     Yeb'lieve  that?" 
Hulse  bowed. 

"Then,  look  here.  I've  loved  Mariar  Pugsley  ever 
sence  I  sot  eyes  on  'er — loved  'er  true  V  honorable,  if 


268  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

ever  man  loved  wooman  so.  If  she  needed  my  heart's 
blood  to  make  'er  happy,  I'd  pour  it  out  fer  'er,  quick  'n' 
joyful.  That's  what  I  want,  Jim — to  see  'er  happy.  But 
she  don't  keer  fer  me — not  that  way — she  never  can.  'N? 
I  won't  worry  'er.  I've  found  out  she  loves  another  man, 
'n'  I  want  'er  to  be  happy  with  him,  if  sech  a  thing  can 
be.  I  want  him  to  marry  'er,  no  matter  what  'comes  o' 
me!" 

He  took  off  his  shabby  hat  and  wiped  his  forehead  on 
his  sleeve. 

"  Well?"  said  Hulse,  without  taking  his  eyes  from  the 
other's  face. 

It  seemed  to  Billy  that  his  statement  had  been  explicit 
enough. 

"  Be  ye  a  fool? "  he  cried,  in  wrath.  "  Can't  ye  guess 
the  rest — can't  ye  see?  The  man  she  loves  is  you,  Jim 
Hulse  !  Don't  ye  understan'  ? " 

Hulse's  sphinx-like  face  remained  quite  unmoved.  Billy 
had  expected  it  to  become  radiant  with  sudden  joy.  His 
anger  gave  place  to  amazement.  Could  it  be  that  Hulse 
—that  any  man — found  no  delight  in  the  prospect  of 
Maria's  love?  Or  was  it  only  this  hermit's  passive  way 
of  receiving  the  glad  intelligence  ? 

"I  know  ye're  prouder  'n  Lucifer,"  proceeded  Billy, 
after  waiting  vainly  for  the  other  to  speak.  "  But  yer  a 
straight,  fair  man  in  yer  deal,  if  ye  be  queer.  'N'  ye're 
worthy  o'  'er,  's  fur  's  /know."  His  eyes  softened  and  his 
voice  lost  its  angry  ring.  "  We've  been  friends  a  long 
time,  Jim.  'N'  now  I  want  ye  to  marry  'er  'n'  make  'er 
happy.  She  deserves  it — she  deserves  the  best  o'  every 
thing.  I  want  'er  to  be  happy — she  mus'  be — a  wooman 
like  'er  wa'n't  put  into  the  world  to  be  mis'able,  like  the 
rest  o'  us." 

Hulse  gave  a  slow,  downward  glance  at  the  rivulet  at 
his  feet,  and  when  he  looked  up  he  was  smiling,  but  not 


IN  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH.  269 

with  his  customary  sarcasm.  Then  he  took  a  step  for 
ward  and  held  out  his  hand.  Billy  laid  his  palm  in  it, 
smiling,  too.  This  was  an  easier  victory  than  he  had 
anticipated. 

"  You  are  a  hero,  Billy  Bling,"  said  the  strange  man, 
and  his  usually  indifferent  tones  were  as  earnest  as  the 
grasp  of  his  strong,  hard  hand.  "  A  knight — a  misplaced 
hero,  born  too  late  for  the  world  to  hear  of,  but  none  the 
worse  for  that.  You  prove  to  me  that  a  man  may  live 
plainly  yet  think  and  feel  in  frescoes."  He  laid  his  left 
hand  on  Billy's  shoulder  and  with  his  other  he  still 
grasped  his  visitor's  right. 

"  Ay,  it  is  settled,  then,"  said  Billy,  trying  to  release 
his  hand.  But  Hulse  held  it  fast,  and  there  was  a  look  of 
further  speech  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  glad  you  came  to  me,  Billy,"  he  said  presently, 
and  his  voice  was  grave  and  deep.  "  Such  an  example 
of  unselfishness  revives  me  ;  but — it  comes  too  late  for 
me  to  profit  by  it.  Listen  !  "  Billy  felt  the  fingers  that 
held  his  hand  stiffen  as  if  turning  into  steel.  "You  make 
me  respect  you  for  the  act  of  self-sacrifice  you  would  like 
to  perform,  but — "  he  flung  away  Billy's  hand  with  a 
force  that  left  it  hanging  lax  as  if  broken  ;  then  he  folded 
his  long  arms  and  stood  erect,  ( '  but,  with  regard  to  the 
lady, — you  must  excuse  me."  The  old  cynical  smile 
flashed  into  his  face  ;  he  turned  abruptly,  and,  without 
another  word,  entered  the  cabin,  closing  the  door  behind 
him. 

And  Billy  went  out  into  the  valley  once  more,  and  the 
sunshine  was  like  blackness  along  his  path. 

Next  morni-ng  early  he  came  again  to  Jim  Hulse's  cabin. 
There  were  dark  circles  under  his  eyes,  his  face  looked 
haggard  and  flaccid,  his  lips  were  drawn  and  pale.  He 
leaned  his  rifle  against  the  door-post  and  looked  in. 

.No  one  was  there, 


270  IM  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VI LAB. 

"  He's  prospectin'  up  Snow  Gulch/'  said  he,  and 
passed  on. 

He  found  Hulse  at  work  with  pick  and  shovel,  digging 
up  the  hard  soil. 

"  I've  come  ag'in,  Jim,"  he  said,  leaning  on  his  gun. 
<£  We'll  have  that  biz'ness  settled  this  time.  I've  fetched 
my  rifle  along,  ye  see. " 

Hulse  looked  up  with  a  faint  little  smile, — almost  of 
gladness.  Billy  had  never  seen  him  smile  like  that  before. 

"  I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Billy,"  laying  down  his  shovel 
and  leaning  against  a  rock.  "  I've  expected  you,  longed 
for  you,  but  I  thought  you  would  come  in  the  conven 
tional  form,  with  a  grin  on  your  face  and  a  scythe  in  your 
hand.  No  matter — the  gun  will  do.  You're  welcome. 
What  are  you  going  to  do  ? " 

"  I  thought  about  it  all  las'  night,"  replied  Billy,  pass 
ing  his  hand  across  his  forehead  in  a  tired  way.  "I 
didn't  sleep  a  wink — I  couldn't.  'N'  I've  come  to  a  con 
clusion,  Jim,  V  it's  this  :  the  man  't  refuses  to  marry 
Mariar  Pugsley  'n'  make  'er  happy — she's  worthy  o'  the 
best,  I  tell  ye ! — don't  deserve  to  live.  He  deserves  to 
die, — he's  got  to  die.  Not  but  what  he  may  be  a  square 
man — I  won't  say  nothin'  ag'in'  'im — but  he's  got  to  die, 
'n'  I'm  the  man  to  kill  'im.  I'm  'er  brother,  Jim — I'm  'er 
brother!"  His  voice  rose  despairingly.  "  Who  else's 
she  got  to  look  to  fer  justice  ?  I've  come  a-purpose  to 
shoot  ye.  That's  what  I'm  here  fer.  I  must  have  yer 
life." 

Hulse  smiled  more  broadly  than  before.  He  did  not 
shift  his  position  in  the  least,  but  regarded  his  companion 
with  a  look  of  mingled  pity  and  admiration. 

"  You  show  poor  taste,  Billy,"  he  said  at  last,  "  to  take 
from  me  the  least  valuable  of  my  possessions.  If  you  had 
chosen  to  rob  me  of  my  Homer,  now — but  no  matter." 
He  pushed  himself  away  from  the  rock  and  stood  erect. 


IN  THE    VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  271 

"  We've  been  friends  for  a  long  time,  Billy/'  he  said. 
"  There's  no  need  of  our  being  enemies  now." 

"  I  d'  know  's  we  need  be  enemies,"  replied  Billy,  dog 
gedly,  fumbling  with  his  gun.  "  But  bein'  friends  with 
me  won't  save  ye.  Ye've  got  to  die." 

"  I  didn't  mean  that.  I  meant  that  dying  by  the  hand 
of  a  friend  is  a  better  end  than  I  expected  to  make.  Very 
well ;  we  are  friends,  then  ? " 

"  Yes,  if  ye  mean  it  that  way." 

"But  you  intend  to  give  me  a  chance,  too?  You 
don't  mean  that  you  are  to  do  all  the  killing  yourself — that 
I  am  to  stand  up  like  a  stick  to  be  shot  at  and  knocked 
over  ? " 

Billy  passed  his  hand  over  his  forehead  again  and 
closed  his  eyes  as  if  trying  to  collect  his  thoughts. 

"  That's  what  I  meant  to  do,"  he  said,  finally.  "  But 
I  hadn't  thought  it  out  right  on  both  sides.  I  see  now — 
I  see  that  wouldn't  be  fair." 

"  You  might  regret  it  afterwards,"  said  Hulse,  almost 
affably,  as  he  shouldered  his  tools.  "  Come  up  to  my 
cabin  and  I'll  get  my  rifle,  too.  We  want  the  thing  done 
fairly  on  both  sides." 

"  We  can  do  the  biz'ness  there  's  well  ys  anywheres," 
assented  Billy,  and  the 'two  men  passed  out  of  the  cool 
shadows  of  Snow  Gulch  under  the  great,  empty  sky. 

They  reached  the  cabin  in  a  few  minutes  and  Hulse 
deposited  his  pick  and  shovel  in  a  corner  of  the  room. 
"  They'll  do  for  some  other  poor  devil,"  he  muttered, 
without  looking  back  at  them.  Then  he  shouldered  his 
rifle,  cast  a  glance  at  the  row  of  books  above  the  table, 
and,  in  a  moment  more,  the  two  men  were  on  their  way 
toward  the  river,  shoulder  to  shoulder,  stepping  evenly, 
crushing  the  grasses  and  flowers  under  their  heavy  tread. 

For  a  little  time  the  birds  and  the  winds  were  silent  as 
if  in  awe  of  a  dread  event ;  only  the  river  was  audible, 


2  7  2  /#-  THE  VALLE  Y  OF  HA  VILAH. 

filling  the  landscape  with  a  whirling  inundation  of  sound, 
The  valley  looked  awed  and  solemn.  Surely,  man  is  less 
the  image  of  God  than  are  the  rocks,  the  rivers  and  the 
trees  ! 

" Stand  'ere,"  said  Billy.  "I'll  go  over  there  by  the 
cottonwood.  That's  'bout  the  right  distance,  ain't  it  ?  " 
And  he  pointed  with  his  gun. 

"Shake  hands  first,  friend,"  saidHulse.  And  the  two 
men  stood  with  their  hands  clasped,  looking  into  each 
other's  eyes. 

"How  loud  the  water  roars — d'ye  hear  it  ? "  cried  Billy, 
and  Hulse  nodded.  ' '  It  throbs  in  my  head — it  shakes  the 
trees  'n'  the  sky." 

They  gained  their  places,  and  Hulse  shouted  so  that 
Billy  could  hear  him  above  the  roar  of  the  river  : 

"Aim  straight  at  my  heart,  now  !  Fair  play  is  the  word 
—for  both  of  us  !  " 

"Ay — ay — fair  play  !  "  came  back  the  answer  above  the 
flood  of  dizzy  sound. 

And  the  river  thundered  and  sent  its  numbness  through 
the  brains  of  the  two  men. 

They  raised  their  rifles. 

' '  One — two — three — " 

It  was  Hulse  who  counted. 

There  were  two  flashes,  two  reports. 

One  wavering  instant  and  Billy  saw  his  antagonist  lying 
among  the  sweet  spring  grasses,  with  a  bullet  in  his  heart. 
And  he  himself  was  standing  alone  by  the  cottonwoods, 
uninjured,  untouched.  And  the  river  sounded  on. 

All  sounds  from  the  unseen  shore  of  life  are  lost  in  the 
noise  of  the  loud  waters  1 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  373 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ALL  that  day  Billy  remained  near  the  spot  where  the  duel 
had  taken  place.  Two  or  three  times  he  walked  a  little 
way  up  the  river,  but  he  soon  came  back  as  if  realizing 
the  uselessness  of  attempting  to  break  away  from  the 
place.  He  had  taken  off  his  hat,  not  so  much  to  cool  his 
head,  as  to  ease  himself  of  a  great  weight  which  pressed 
against  his  brain,  and  crushed  all  power  of  thought  out  of 
it.  The  sun  beat  remorselessly  upon  his  face,  but  without 
'  bringing  anything  of  color  into  his  wan,  fallen  cheeks. 
He  had  torn  his  shirt  collar  wide  apart,  and  the  blood  in 
the  big  veins  at  his  throat  throbbed  madly,  but  with  a 
strange,  dizzying  coldness  which  poured  the  numbness  of 
paralysis  into  his  thoughts.  Several  times  he  had  ap 
proached  the  body  of  the  dead  man  and  gazed  upon  it  fix 
edly,  as  if  to  photograph  the  picture  upon  his  soul  for 
eternity  ;  and  when  he  walked  away  from  it,  he  had  a 
way  of  steadying  himself,  as  if  bracing  his  mind  to  look 
at  something  horrible  that  still  lay  before  him  on  the  grass. 
Time  and  again,  after  glaring  at  a  certain  spot  with  wide, 
unwinking  eyes,  he  turned  away  shudderingly  as  if  to 
avoid  contact  with  a  visible  horror,  and  took  a  direction 
at  right  angles  to  his  former  path.  But  at  night  when  the 
sun  had  fin  ally  set,  and  he  could  resist  the  fascination  that 
held  him  near  that  set  white  face,  he  left  the  spot  and 
went  slowly  up  the  valley  to  his  own  cabin.  Then  he 
lighted  a  candle  and  opened  a  drawer  in  the  rough  deal 
table,  and  took  out  a  folded  paper.  He  examined  it  care 
fully  as  if  to  make  sure  that  it  was  what  he  wanted. 
"  I'm  glad  I  made  it  out  afore  Jim  Hulse  refused  to  do 

18 


274 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 


what  I  asked  o'  'im,"  he  muttered.  "I  don't  believe  I 
could  write  it  now. " 

Then  he  went  out  into  the  night  once  more,  leaving  the 
candle  burning. 

The  wind  had  played  with  his  unkempt  hair  at  will,  and 
when  he  presented  himself  at  the  door  of  the  Pugsley 
cabin,  where  he  found  the  old  lady  alone,  he  looked  so 
haggard,  so  wild,  in  the  dim  light  that  Mrs.  Pugsley  gave 
a  shrill  scream  of  terror  at  sight  of  him  and,  without  al 
lowing  him  to  enter  or  even  speak,  told  him  that  Maria 
had  gone  for  a  walk  by  the  river,  and  that  he  had  better 
go  at  once  and  find  her.  He  turned  from  the  door  dully 
without  a  word.  In  spite  of  the  numbness  in  his  head, 
he  knew  perfectly  well  where  he  would  find  her  by  the 
river. 

The  world  had  a  veiled  look  to  his  eyes.  The  moon 
was  shining,  but  its  beams  were  uncertain,  and  the  stars 
glimmered  through  thin  clouds,  like  women's  eyes  through 
shreds  of  gauze.  As  he  passed  under  the  cotton  woods,  he 
stopped  a  moment  and  looked  wistfully  up  among  the 
still  branches  ;  and  suddenly  the  moon  came  out  from  be 
hind  a  cloud  and  the  light  fluttered  down  through  the 
branches  like  myriad  white-winged  birds. 

"  I  wish  it  'ud  stay  so,"  he  muttered,  folding  his  arms 
and  staring  up  at  the  full,  round  disk.  "  I  didn't  use  to 
care  ;  but  now — I  hate  the  dark — V  I  hate  the  daylight, 
too."  But  even  as  he  spoke  a  great  white  cloud  surged 
across  the  moon  like  a  foaming  wave,  and  the  light  was 
gone. 

And  he  went  on  toward  the  river,  muttering  to  himself. 

"  Whatever  the  preachers  may  say  life  is  wuth,"  he 
said,  "  it  ain't  wuth  livin'."  And  the  river  repeated  the 
words  far  and  near. 

He  found  Maria,  as  he  had  expected,  sitting  in  the  old 
place  on  the  fallen  log  by  the  water.  Her  hands  were 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  275 

loosely  clasped  in  her  lap,  and  her  sun-bonnet  lay  on  the 
grass  at  her  feet.  He  stood  watching  her  a  long  time 
before  she  was  aware  of  his  presence. 

But  again  the  moon  came  out,  flinging  the  slim  shad 
ows  of  reeds  out  upon  the  water.  It  threw  his  own 
shadow  at  her  feet,  and,  when  he  saw  that  she  noticed  it, 
he  moved  softly  forward  and  stood  before  her. 

11  W'y,  Billy  !  "  she  cried,  startled  in  spite  of  herself  at 
sight  of  his  altered  face  and  manner.  "  Ye  come  like  a 
ghost  out  o'  the  shadders.  What  in  the  world  've  ye  been" 
doin'  to  make  ye  look  so  ?  Where  Ve  ye  been  ?  'N' 
wher's  yer  hat  ?  " 

He  came  still  farther  forward,  and  tried  to  smile  at  her 
easily  and  reassuringly — such  a  wan,  piteous,  tremulous 
smile  !  His  eyes  were  filmed  with  a  dead  lustre  which 
seemed  like  an  interposition  of  something  tangible  be 
tween  his  thoughts  and  whatever  he  fastened  his  gaze 
upon. 

"  I'm  all  right,"  he  said,  not  heeding  her  questions. 
"  Don't  ye  see?  Ye  needn't  be  afeerd  o'  me.  Nothin'  's 
the  matter.  Look  !  my  hand  don't  shake,  does  it?"  He 
held  his  hand  out  where  the  light  could  fall  upon  it.  "Ye 
mustn't  think  anything  's  wrong  with  me  or — or  be  afeerd 
o'  me.  I  reckon  I'll  set  down,"  he  added.  "  I'm  ruther 
tired."  She  made  a  place  for  him  on  the  log  at  her  side, 
but  he  turned  away  hastily.  "  Not  there  !  "  he"  said,  in  a 
fearful  whisper.  Then,  recollecting  himself,  "I  —  I'd 
ruther  set  'ere,  if  ye  don't  mind." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mind,"  she  answered.  "Only  the  grass 
is  damp,  'n'  ye  may  ketch  cold." 

He  burst  into  shrill,  unnatural  laughter. 
•    "  That  'ud  be  too  bad  !     I'm  sech  a  dellycut  creeter — 
poor  little  feller!     What  if  I'd  ketch  cold  V  die?"     He 
stopped  laughing  as  abruptly  as  he  had  begun,  and  sat 
quite  still  a  few  moments,  occasionally  moistening  his 


276  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

dry  lips  with  his  tongue  and  rubbing  them  with  the  back 
of  his  hand. 

"The  river  ain't  so  noisy  to-night,"  he  went  on,  after  a 
while,  staring  out  at  the  tossing  water.  "  Don't  ye  think 
it  's  quieter  'n  it  was  this  mornin'?  Or  didn't  ye  notice 
how  it  roared  !  I  hate  the  sound  o'  it  when  it  fills  my 
head  'n'  drowns  my  thoughts,  V  shakes  the  clouds  all  up 
with  the  sun." 

She  had  regarded  him  so  long  as  her  best  friend  that  it 
had  become  a  habit  to  think  of  him  as  one  who  would 
avert  danger  from  her  rather  than  precipitate  it.  Had 
any  one  but  Billy  looked  and  talked  so  she  would  have 
felt  genuine  alarm. 

"  The  nights  are  allus  quiet  'ere,"  was  all  she  said. 

"  Yes.  'N'  I  heerd  ye  say  wunst  ye  liked  to  see  the 
stars  come  out  one  by  one — d'ye  'member  ?  See,  they're 
all  out  now.  'N'  the  evenin' — to-night  it  come  like  the 
benediction  after  singin'.  Only  it  was  a  bad  day,  'n'  I 
hate  the  dark.  I  hate  it  wuss  'n  what  I  do  broad  daylight. 
D'ye  'member  the  benediction,  Mariar  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  'member,"  she  answered,  moving  a  little  away 
from  him. 

"  They  used  to  say  benediction  jes'  afore  meetin'  was 
out,  back  there  in  Ohio,"  he  continued,  dreamily.  "  'N' 
the  beeches  outside  the  winder  stood  up  straight  'n;  tall 
'n'  still." 

Then  he  was  silent  again  for  a  long  time,  gazing  out  at 
the  dimly-lighted  landscape  and  restlessly  pulling  up  the 
grass  by  the  roots  and  fumbling  with  it  on  his  knees. 

How  quiet,  yet  how  instinct  with  life  the  spring  night 
was  !  Maria  realized  it  with  a  sense  of  incongruity.  The 
air  was  full  of  the  growth  and  aspiration  which  thrills  all 
things  when  young  buds  no  longer  nestle  quietly,  but 
spread  their  wings  to  the  soft  air.  The  near  river  was  a 
continuous  ripple  of  song. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH.  277 

"  This  life — this  life  !  "  he  muttered,  turning  toward  her 
and  clasping  his  big  hands,  still  full  of  grass,  around  his 
knee.  Then  creeping  forward  with  a  stealthy,  gliding 
movement,  he  peered  into  her  face,  and  whispered,  with 
a  frown  :  "D'ye  know  what  it  means,  Mariar — I  say,  d'ye 
know  what  life  means  ?  " 

"  W'y,"  she  answered,  frightened  at  last,  "  to  me  it 
means  a  chance  to  do  my  duty  by  mother — nothin'  more.'' 

He  seized  her  wrist  and  held  her  in  a  grasp  that  made 
her  moan. 

"  No  more  ? "  he  cried,  in  a  repressed  voice.  "No  more 
'n  that?  Listen  !  I'll  tell  ye.  I've  been  thinkin'  o'  it  all 
day."  His  lips  were  now  close  to  her  ear,  and  his  voice 
struck  her  cheek  like  a  sting.  "  It  means  a  chance  to  git 
ready  fer  hell !  "  And  he  flung  her  hand  away  and  sunk 
back  upon  the  grass,  scowling  and  muttering. 

"  Ye  ain't  yerself,  Billy,  or  ye  wouldn't  a-hurt  me  like 
that,"  she  complained,  rubbing  her  hand  where  he  had 
clutched  it.  "Ye've  told  me  over 'n' over  agki'  't  ye  love 
me,  but  ye  can't  keer  fer  me  or  ye  wouldn't  give  me  pain. 
Love  's  a  sweet  'n'  tender  thing,  Billy.  It  never  harms." 

He  laughed  hoarsely,  scattering  the  broken  grasses  over 
his  knees. 

"Ay,"  he  said,  "I  understand  that  Love  's  a  tender 
thing,  a  sweet  thing,  sweeter  'n  what  life  is,  but — "  here 
he  smiled  strangely,  "not 's  sweet  s  'death.  Ye  needn't 
fear  me,  Mariar,  I  wouldn't  harm  ye  fer  the  world. 
Don't  go.  I've  got  some  news  fer  ye.  I  saw  Jim  Hulse 
this  mornin.' ' 

She  did  not  reply,  but  settled  back  on  the  log  from 
which  she  had  partly  risen,  and  he  knew  that  she  was 
listening. 

"I  recken  ye'd  like  to  know  how  he  gits  along  all  by 
hisself  down  there."  He  gave  his  head  a  jerk  in  the  di 
rection  of  Hulse's  cabin. 


278  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

Her  head  drooped  till  her  eyes  were  hidden. 

"  Ye've  been  tellin'  'im,"  she  whispered. 

•"They  ain't  nothin'  the  matter  o'  me,"  he  went  on,  un« 
heedingly.  "See,  my  hand  's  stiddy,  ain't  it?  It  don't 
shake,  does  it  ?  I'm  all  right.  Only  my  head  goes  wrong 
when  I  try  to  think  o'  some  things — not  o'  that ;  it  's  clear 
nough  when  I  think  o'  that!  But  a  while  ago  when  I 
tried  to  'member  a  piece  o'  poetry  I  learned  when  I  was 
a  boy, — suthin'  'bout  a  busy  bee  'n'  a  openin'  flower, — I 
couldn't  make  head  nor  tail  o'  it.  My  thoughts  git  sort 
o'  twisted  'n'  crooked  sometimes ;  that's  all.  It  ain't 
much.  I'm  ruther  tired."  He  drew  his  knees  up  to  his 
chin  in  a  grotesque  fashion  and  clasped  his  arms  around 
them. 

"  Ye  don't  know  what  a  day  I've  had  o'  it ;  ye  can't 
have  no  idee.  Yes,  I  saw  'im  this  mornin'.  He  was 
quiet — my  God  !  how  white  'n'  still  he  was  with  the  sun 
a-shinin'  in  his  open  eyes  !  I  was  goin  to  tetch  'im, — I 
was  goin'  to  drag  'im  back  out  o'  the  sun,  but  the  blood 
ran  out  o'  his  heart,  'n'  his  eyes  flared,  'n'  his  teeth  threat 
ened,  'n'  I  didn't  dare.  He's  layin'  up  there  amongst  the 
lilies  now — mebbe  the  coyotes  are  at  him  by  this  time/' 

She  had  sprung  forward  and  was  shaking  him  by  the 
shoulders  as  if  trying  to  awaken  a  man  who  was  talking 
in  his  sleep.  "  Billy — Billy — Billy  ! — "  she  repeated  the 
word  in  a  hoarse,  whispered  shriek,  but  he  neither  noticed 
nor  looked  at  her. 

"I  staid  aroun*  there  all  day  tryin'  to  keep  'em  off. 
They're  devils,  them  coyotes — 's  bad 's  wolves.  '  N '  they 
was  a  buzzard  I  had  to  fight.  It  tried  to  tear  his  eyes. 
I  beat  it  off  with  my  gun,  but  it  come  back  time  'n'  ag'in. 
I'd  a  shot  it,  only  my  gun  was  empty, — I  think  the  hell 
ish  bird  knew.  I  used  the  charge  early  in  the  mornin', 
'n'  I  didn't  have  no  more, — I  didn't  think  I'd  need  no 
more.  I  wish  't  I  could  a-got  the  cussed  bird  in  my 


IN  THE   VALLEY  OF  HA  VILA  ft. 


279 


hands.  I'd  a-wrung  its  neck  slow  'n'  stiddy — like  that — 
jes'  to  hear  it  scream  while  its  bones  cracked.  Ye  don't 
know  how  it  looks  to  see  one  o'  them  brutes  fightin' 
to  pick  out  a  dead  man's  eyes  !  '  N '  I  couldn't  use  Jim's 
gun,  nuther.  That  was  empty  too.  He  fired,  but  he 
missed  me.  I  reckon  he  done  it  o'  purpose.  But  my 
aim  was  sure.  I  aimed  at  his  heart,  's  I  told  'im  to  aim  at 
mine.  The  mark  was  so  plain  as  he  stood  there  in  the  sun 
shine.  I  could  a-hit  it  a  mile  away.  'N'  we  wasn't  fur 
apart.  So  I  fired  :  'n'  the  hills  rocked,  'n' I  saw  'im  heave 
'n'  fall,  'n'  the  earth  shook.  He  was  so  full  o'  blood  fer  a 
thin  man,  Maria  !  It  ran  out  over  everything,  over  the 
grass  'n'  the  lilies,  it  filled  the  river,  it  splashed  the  hills, 
it  soaked  the  sky  !  "  His  voice  died  out  in  a  long  exha 
lation  of  horror  and  he  covered  his  face  with  his  hands. 
Maria  had  stopped  shrieking.  She  bent  over  him,  yet 
straining  away  from  him,  her  hands  wrenched  apart  in  her 
apron,  her  eyes  riveted  upon  him. 

At  last  he  raised  his  head  again  and  met  her  eyes. 

11  It  was  all  forjyou,  Maria,"  he  said.  "  I  told  'im'  what 
I'd  found  out — how  ye  keered  fer  'im' — 'n'  asked  'im  to 
marry  ye  'n'  make  ye  happy.  That's  what  I  wanted,  was 
to  see  ye  happy,  it  didn't  matter  'bout  me.  How  could  I 
tell  it  'ud  turn  out  so  bad  ?  I  thought  he'd  be  glad — 's 
glad 's  I'd  a-been  in  his  place.  But  he  went  into  the  cabin 
'n'  shet  the  door,  on  me.  I  don't  'member  jest  his  words — 
'n'  I  killed  'im.  What  else  could  I  do?  It  wa'nt  right — 
I  don't  pertend  to  say  't  was — it  'ud  a-been  all  right  if  both 
o'  us  was  dead.  It  was  all  fer  you,  Mariar ;  he  didn't 
deserve  to  live,  after  that  1  " 

She  stood  up  straight  above  him  now.  Looking  up  at 
her,  he  thought  her  head  must  touch  the  stars. 

" '  N  '  ye  reely  done  all  that  ? " 

He  nodded,  still  fumbling  with  the  grass  and  twisting 
it  in  and  out  among  his  fingers. 


28o  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HA  VILAH. 

Her  eyes  flashed.  Anger  and  scorn  took  possession  oi 
her  after  the  first  cold  horror  was  past. 

"The  man  I  love  is  dead,"  she  cried.  "  But  jyou  are 
alive  !  Ye  took  good  keer  o'  that  !  I  wonder  the  words 
don't  blister  yer  mouth  when  ye  say  'em  !  " 

He  looked  at  her  with  a  slow  comprehension  of  her 
meaning. 

"  I  didn't  do  it  thinkin'  ye'd  take  up  with  me,  my  dear," 
he  said,  humbly.  "'  Fore  God,  I  didn't ;  I  never  thought 
o'  that.  He  agreed  to  shoot  me  too  ;  it  was  a  bargain 
atween  us.  He  said  he'd  aim  fer  my  heart — 'n'  he  didn't 
keep  his  word." 

She  turned  awray  with  a  gesture  of  loathing  and  he 
stretched  out  his  hands  to  her  from  the  ground. 

"Don't  be  too  hard  on  a  man,"  he  pleaded.  "I  know 
it  wa'nt  right — I  don't  ask  ye  to  fergive  me.  But  I  don't 
reckin  my  head  was  quite  straight — it  hain't  been,  lately. 
'N'  the  river  was  so  loud  I  couldn't  think.  I  know  they 
ain't  no  excuse  fer  me, — I  know,  I  know  !  "  He  crawled 
on  his  hands  and  knees  after  her,  trying  to  clutch  her 
dress  as  she  moved  away.  Then,  rambling  vaguely  in 
his  speech.  "Don't  be  too  hard  on  a  man.  The  good 
Lord'  created  us  all " 

"'N'  how  He  must  a'  stared  when  He  created  a  thing 
likejyou  /  "  she  flashed  back  in  scorn. 

With  an  effort  he  swallowed  something  in  his  throat, 
and  when  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was  even  and  quiet. 

"I  s'pected  this,"  he  said.  "Ye're  right  'n'  just,  's 
ye  allus  be.  I  know  I  deserved  it  'n'  I  come  prepared. 
We  can't  even  be  brother. 'an'  sister  no  more,  Mariar— 
that's  over,  too.  I've  wronged  ye,  my  dear,  wuss  'n' 
any  woman  was  ever  wronged  afore.  I  don't  ask  ye  to 
fergive  me — God  Hisself  can't  fergive  sech  a  deed — so 
how  can  you  ?  But  I'll  do  what  I  can — I'll  do  what  I 
can.  I  come  prepared  fer  it.  I'm  goin'  now.  Ye'll  never 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVTLAH.  281 

Hate  me  as  I  deserve — hate  me  allus;  it'll 
be  rny  greatest  punishment  here  'n'  in  hell  !  " 

He  was  gone,  and  she  stood  under  the  cotton  woods 
alone.  The  moon  shone.  The  long  valley  looked  like  a 
vitreous  sea,  burnished  by  the  white  light,  and  the  river 
glided  softly  past,  like  a  soul  that  fears. 

When  Maria  reached  the  cabin  after  long  wandering 
under  the  cottonwoods,  she  found  her  mother  and  Maud 
Eliza  listening  with  big  eyes  to  Ephraim,  who  was  reading 
a  written  scrawl  by  the  light  of  the  guttering  candle. 

" Somebody  throwed  it  into  the  door  !  "he  cried,  excit 
edly,  as  soon  as  Maria  entered  the  room.  "  I  couldn't  see 
who.  It  must  a-been  Billy — Billy  Bling  !  Have  ye  seen 
'im  to-night,  Mariar?  I  passed  'im  a  while  ago  'n'  he 
looked  dredful — like  the  breakin'-up  o'  a  hard  winter.  Have 
ye  quarTd  with  'im  ?  Lord  what  a  blessin' — what  a  com 
fort  my  'quaintance  with  that  feller's  been  !  why  look  'ere — 
only  think  !  He  says  in  this  'ere  paper  't  he's  goin'  to  skip 
-the  kentry  'n'  wants  ye  'n'  the  other  feller — that. must  mean 
me  ! — to  be  happy,  so  he  leaves  that  new  strike  o'  his — 
thebigges'  gold  find  o'  the  age,  Mariar  ! — well,  who  in  the 
name  o'  heaven,  d'ye  think  he  leaves  it  to  ?  W'y  to  you,  my 
gal,  tojyou/  Come  'ere  this  minnit  'n'  embrace,  yer  lovin' 
father  't  's  allus  done  his  part  by  ye  'n'  deserve  well  o'  ye  ! 
To  Mariar,  ole  woman,  d'ye  hear  ?  To  Mariar,  Maud  Elizy, 
d'ye  hear  ?  Think  o'  that !  It 's  wuth  millions,  Mariar, — its 
wuth  millions,  ole  woman  ! — Maud  Elizy,  set  a  bench  fer 
yer  sister.  'N'  I'll  drink  champagne  when  whiskey  tastes 
stale,  'n'  learn  to  play  billiards,  'n'  ride  in  the  street  car, 
'n'  wear  button  shoes,  'n' — oh,  Lord  !  mebbe  we'll  all  go 
to  Yurrup  along  o'  the  rest  o'  the  toney  folks  down  to 
'Frisco,  'n'  have  green  peas  in  February." 

"'N'  we'll  git  out  o'  this  'ere  place  to  wunst,"  croaked 
the  old  woman  in  raven-like  tones,  sitting  up  on  the  lounge 
and  adjusting  her  cap,  which  looked  more  startled  than 


282  IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  HAVILAH. 

ever.  "  JN*  we'll  go  right  down  to  'Frisco  rn'  buy  a  house 
on  Nob  Hill,  V  I'll  take  my  sofy  along  o'  me — mind  that, 
Ephraim  ! — 'n'  I'll  have  cardinal  stockin's  'n'  individool 
salt-cellars  's  a  Swipes  should,  'n'  be  looked  up  to  as  the 
fat  o'  the  land.  Eh,  Mariar  ?  '' 

But   Maria   answered    nothing.     She  turned   her  face 
away  from  the  light  and  wept. 


THE   END. 


rr 


m.  «fc. 


•** 


3 


